


souvenirs from better times

by Different_approach



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Bad Ideas, Barebacking, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Collars, Come Eating, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Facials, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police Brutality, Racism, Rough Sex, Slurs, Snowballing, Spit Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, fletching, risky sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 100,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Different_approach/pseuds/Different_approach
Summary: Pratt really shouldn't have hooked up with that intimidating red-head he met in the gas station convenience store when he was home in Hope County for Spring Break of his senior year of college.And he definitely should not have continued to hook up with Jacob Seed for the next four years.Probably should have noticed some warning signs. Probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devils_trap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/gifts), [Dalidarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalidarling/gifts).



> this is a "near canon" AU, in that, eventually, we will get to the helicopter crash and Pratt will be given to Jacob. There will continue to be elements of emotional and metal manipulation and abuse. So like, this isn't happy. Just keep that in mind.
> 
> both devils_trap and dalidarling are enablers.

Pratt shuffles through the old receipts, out-of-date registration papers, and every insurance card he’s ever been issued, cluttering his glove compartment. He could have sworn he stashed a pen in there, but he comes up empty handed. Except for a questionably stale piece of gum that he unwraps, sticking the crumpled paper into the door well along with a couple other wrappers he hasn’t cleaned out. He pops the stick into his mouth, biting down and feeling it crumble against his tongue. Gross. But he keeps on chewing and the texture evens out.

No pen, then. Fuck.

Climbing out of the driver’s side, Pratt slams the door behind him. Hands shoved in his pockets, he realizes that he should have brought a coat. “Spring Break” or not, Holland Valley is cold in early April and he regrets leaving his coat back in Bozeman.

He could be on Venice Beach right now, with his friends. Enjoying the salty air and warm sand. Ogling beautiful bodies who wouldn’t give Pratt the time of day. Because the mountain boys who get attention are the ones like Caleb, tall and broad shouldered with beards that make them look older than their age. And Pratt has the honor of always looking like the softer, scrawnier option when lined up next to his best friend.

But instead of actually enjoying Spring Break of his senior year, he’s staying at his mom’s and driving out to the Sheriff’s office tomorrow morning to sign his paperwork. At least he can smugly return to campus at the end of the week gloating about his new job while Caleb doesn’t have dick in terms of offers. Even if it means returning home to Hope County, a job is a fucking job and Pratt is pretty sure he’ll only have to live with his mom for about a couple months before he has enough to move out into a place of his own. Which is more than Caleb has got going.

The bell above the door rings as Pratt enters the convenience store, heading for the drink cases in the rear. He scans the tempting jewel-toned bottles before settling on Coke Zero and pulling his selection from the fridge. Willpower alone keeps him from grabbing a couple of Twix from the counter as he asks the clerk if they sell pens? 

The kid (really maybe just a couple years younger than Pratt, oh, the Blake’s kid, still in high school) says they’re in the rack over by the window in packs of six.

Pratt tells him thanks, leaving his Coke on the counter as he heads back towards where the clerk pointed. It takes him all of twenty seconds to grab the pack. But somehow in the interval, a tall, broad figure in a military jacket, tan boots, and dark wash jeans completely decimated at the hem, has taken up residence at the counter. The fluorescents in the shop dye his hair a sort of orange-red that can’t possibly, really, be that bright.

Pratt has never seen the guy before, but that’s not so unusual. The last four years he’s been pretty sparse around the county. At college most of the year and working on campus through the summer to try and pay down his loans while still in school. He only really sees his mom on breaks like this one. Or the guy might just be passing through. The stranger leans over the counter, squinting in the direction of the cigarette packs lined up behind the clerk with a sort of easy confidence. 

The kid gets the Marlboros for him, reading out his total for the cigarettes and two one-liter bottles of water he’s got lined up on the counter. The guy pays in cash, dropping the cigarettes into the breast pocket of his jacket and tucking the bottles of water under one arm.

When he turns, Pratt finally gets a good look at his face, oval, long, with a thick red beard that matches his hair near perfectly. Pratt would place him at late thirties or early forties, hard to tell. There’s a neat dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose, and what appears to be some sort of scar or burn running down one side of his handsome face. Pratt is admittedly floored, both by his size and his composure. His jacket is open at the front, J SEED printed on the pocket and white shirt on underneath.

The man is maybe three or four inches taller than Pratt, at most, but the difference in their bulk makes him _feel_ much larger. Like he could swallow Pratt up if he wanted to. And from the twisting, warm feeling in Pratt’s stomach, he’s pretty sure he wants to get devoured. But guys like that are always straight anyway. Not even worth making the suggestion at the risk of getting his jaw smashed in. Later tonight though, when Pratt is certain his mom’s asleep, he’s pretty sure he’s going to replay this encounter in his head while he rubs one out because, _Jesus, fuck_ is he standing close. Close enough that Pratt swears he can smell the salt on his skin and the musk of his antiperspirant, plus whatever detergent he uses. It’s crisp and clean and makes Pratt’s head spin a little bit.

Turns out that Pratt is so far out of it he doesn’t even realize that he’s blocking the stranger’s path out of the store and back to his car before the red-haired man grimaces, asking, “Do you have a problem with me?”

Coming back to his senses Pratt barks out, ”No, sorry,” too loudly and steps aside to let him pass. Sweat drips down the back of Pratt’s neck, catching in ten fabric of his collar as he steps towards the counter, the cellophane around the pack of pens crumpled in his fist.

He pays for his soda and the pens, hustling out of the shop and back to his car parked at the pump. There’s a white truck parked at the pump on the other side of his gray compact and Pratt cranes his head around out of nosey habit to get a look at who the owner is.

The truck is finished fueling, but the guy from inside the store leans against the driver’s side door, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and arms folded over his chest. His jacket sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing blotchy burn marks on both arms, almost like the skin is decaying.

Pratt just manages to hold the man’s gaze for a moment too long, his eyes a clear, icy blue. When he pushes back from the door, climbing behind the wheel, he doesn’t say a word, but Pratt gets the keen sense he’s supposed to follow. He was waiting for _him_.

God, this is so fucking risky. But Pratt has to admit that it’s _hot_. He’s hooked up with a handful of guys in college. Not all of them have been out, but they’ve all been roughly in the same position that Pratt is. Young guys away from home, testing out the waters, feeling where their boundaries are. But this feels different already. Though Pratt can’t precisely place the stranger’s age, he knows it’s got to be ten or more years older than he is. And he doesn’t know anything about the guy or what he really wants. For all Pratt knows, this still ends up with him axe murdered in a ditch somewhere out in the woods. He shouldn’t follow.

But the white truck pulls away from the pump and stops before pulling out onto the road. Waiting. Waiting. It doesn’t move until after Pratt gets back into his civic and starts the engine, heading in behind the truck.

It’s dark out, and most of Hope County lacks street lights. There really aren’t other cars out on the road. Pratt follows the truck through the Valley another ten minutes, before it turns onto a gravel path and into the woods. And Pratt knows there really should be some sort of self-preservation instinct kicking in, but it doesn’t, as the truck pulls to the side of the path and the driver cuts the headlights. Pratt pulls up beside the truck, leaving just enough space between the vehicles that he can clamber out.

His stomach clenches first with fear when the stranger grabs him by the waist, spinning Pratt around until his back hits the tailgate of the truck, knocking the wind out of him. The reasonable part of his brain starts yelling that he’s fucking dead. He’s fucking dead because he was dumb enough to follow this man into the trees.

But the fear parts as the man’s mouth descends onto his jaw, not quite a kiss or a bite, but something in between, warm and ferocious, sending sparks across Pratt’s skin, coiling in his gut. The stranger keeps one hand wrapped around Pratt’s back, holding him in place so he can’t get away as his lips descend down Pratt’s neck.

“You think you’re a hot piece of ass, dontcha?” he growls against Pratt’s skin. 

Pratt’s still at the threshold between panic and arousal, panting out, “oh fuck, oh fuck,” as the stranger starts grinding against him. Pratt is half-hard already from the adrenaline, the dizzy feeling of being overwhelmed and wanted and _wanting_. He can’t quite come up with a smart-ass answer, other than “ _fuck me._ ”

The man pulls back, smiling at Pratt with teeth browned with coffee and tobacco. Pratt shudders, grabbing onto his shoulders and grinding against his offered thigh, trying to find enough fiction to steal a little pleasure.

“Needy?” the man asks, pawing at Pratt’s belt. He works the buckle open with one hand before starting on Pratt’s fly. Big fingers surprisingly nimble as he pops the button.

Pratt tips his head back, groaning as the man’s hand wraps around his dick, giving him a couple of firm strokes before letting go. Shifting again, he grabs Pratt by the hips, spinning him around so he’s facing the truck bed, half-bent over the tailgate.

“You got lube, Peaches?” he asks, already pulling down Pratt’s jeans just past the slight curve of his ass. The chill in the air hits him hard, skin goosefleshing as the breeze blows through the trees. The stranger sticks one hand between Pratt’s slightly parted thighs, the length of his pointer finger rubbing up along the underside of Pratt’s balls. His hand is cooler than the flesh between Pratt’s legs and he shivers at the contact, arching backwards so his ass butts up against the stranger’s groin.

“No,” Pratt admits, still a little flustered by the pet name. Then again, it’s not like they introduced themselves. _J Seed_ is all that Pratt has to work with, and there’s no guarantee that’s the stranger’s name, just because it’s the name on his jacket. “Wasn’t expecting—oh god!” Pratt bucks into the circle of the stranger’s fist around his cock as he starts to pump, pulling back Pratt’s foreskin and thumbing over the head. His knees feel weak and he grabs the tailgate to try and keep upright.

“Crying shame, that is,” the stranger drawls, pulling his hand back.

Pratt is ready to turn around and drop to his knees just to salvage something from this. But just from the outline of the stranger’s cock that Pratt can feel through his jeans, Pratt is pretty sure that he’s big. Really fucking big. Would be fitting with the rest of him. And Pratt might not be _good_ at giving head, but he’s totally and completely ready in this moment to be _good_ to the man still hovering over top of his exposed ass and thighs.

Before Pratt can offer his mouth, the stranger spits into his hand and panic bubbles in Pratt’s stomach again. There’s no fucking way saliva is about to get him slick enough to take any dick, much less whatever the stranger’s got between his legs. Pratt has bottomed twice before now with different guys and while he liked it (okay...loved it) he required a decent amount of lube and plenty of dedication to get started.

But the stranger doesn’t go for his hole, holding Pratt by the back of the neck with one hand while he smears the spit between Pratt’s thighs. He spits into his hand again, repeats the process twice more until he’s satisfied.

Pratt feels fucking _disgusting_ already and he’s rock hard against the tailgate as the stranger unzips and shoves his cock between Pratt’s legs. Pratt can’t see it from this angle but fuck, this guy’s huge dick is pressing up against his taint and balls and the underside of his cock. As he tenses his thighs he can feel the girth of it and just the idea of fitting it inside, even with enough lube, seems suddenly impossible. Oh _god_ , but he kind of wants to _try_.

The stranger shifts his grip from the back of Pratt’s neck to the front, curling his big hand around Pratt’s windpipe just enough that he feels it, but not enough to choke him. The hold is almost gentle, sure. He’s not going to hurt Pratt, just be a little rough with him. But Pratt doesn’t have time to relax as the stranger starts fucking between his legs, hard enough that Pratt’s pelvis smashes against the tailgate. He’s smart enough to arch so his cock doesn’t slam against the metal too, and when he gets the angle just right, his hipbones stay pinned against the gate even as the stranger thrusts and maybe now his entire stomach won’t be black and blue tomorrow.

“That get you hard, Peaches?” the stranger whispers into his ear, “just you and me out here. You can tell me.”

“Ohgod,” Pratt slurs, his hands white knuckled around the lip of the gate, trying to keep himself steady. “Ohgodoh, fuck, yeah, yeah yeah….”

“Use your words,” he teases.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pratt babbles, “gets me hard, god you’re big, fuck.” He has to let go of the tailgate to grab hold of his cock and stroke. The adjustment gives the stranger enough time to get him pinned again, the hot length of his cock nestled tightly between Pratt’s thighs and his pelvis flush against Pratt’s ass. 

“Could you even take it?” the stranger asks, tightening his grip around Pratt’s neck just for a second before loosening again. “Think you could fit it all inside? Or it would split you open? Wreck you.”

Pratt knows he wants him to talk, to respond, but his senses are so fried already all he can manage is a needy, “Please,” even though he doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

“Look so pretty on my cock. Strong and _good._ ”

Pratt doesn’t know if it’s the praise that gets him, or the heat of the stranger’s breath against the shell of his ear. But he pumps his cock and spills messily onto the tailgate. Shuddering with the stranger still rutting against him.

“That’s it, Peaches, that’s it,” he thrusts a few more times before coming between Pratt’s legs, come sticking to his thighs and balls and dick and god he knows he’s a fucking mess. When the stranger lets go of his throat and hip Pratt can’t keep his weight, just sinking until he’s kneeling on the ground, breathing heavy.

He might not know a lot about how things like this work, but he’s expecting the man to tell him to get back in his car and scram. They’ve both got what they wanted and there’s no reason for them to stay out here. If Pratt’s jeans weren’t ruined before, they are now, mud clinging to his knees as he has trouble getting back up.

The stranger crouches down next to him, and even in the dark his eyes look so blue. Looking at his face up close like this, Pratt is fairly sure now that he’s in his forties, at least, not any younger. And god, what the fuck did Pratt _do_. This guy is twice his age.

“You okay, Peaches?” he reaches out cautiously with one hand, like you would comfort a terrified animal. When Pratt doesn’t flinch, the stranger touches his hair, just behind his ear where it always curls no matter what Pratt tries to do to tame it. 

Pratt breathes heavily, “Yeah, just, gotta get my bearings. I’m fine.” He’s pretty sure he’s not fine.

“Okay.” 

The stranger doesn’t say anything else, waiting for Pratt to get back to his feet before standing up himself. And god, there’s still Pratt’s come on the tailgate of this guy’s truck. But the paint is white and maybe it’s not too obvious.

“I’ll um...get going then….thanks.” Thanks? Pratt can’t think of anything else to say as he tucks himself back into his boxers and jeans and stumbles off towards his car. Once the door is closed and his lights are back on, he watches as the stranger gets back into his truck. Pratt takes what is probably a twelve-point turn to get facing the other direction to go back the way he came. He doesn’t wait for the truck to follow, figuring that the stranger is waiting so they split up.

By the time Pratt makes it back to his mom’s place just outside Fall’s End, his mom is in her bedroom, probably fast asleep. Pratt sneaks through the living room to the single bath, shucking off his clothes and turning on the tap. He has to wait a minute for the water to run hot before stepping in.

Washing his hair now means going to sleep with it wet. And his mom will scold him in the morning that he’ll get a head cold. That’s probably a wives’ tale but she takes things like that very seriously. But Pratt doesn’t have the muscle control right now to keep his head out from under the spray.

He focuses his attention between his legs, soaping down where the stranger’s come is dry and flaky and gross. After he’s certain he’s gotten all of it, he scrubs the rest of himself hastily, trying to ignore the fact he’s hard again.

It’s another three days before he heads back to campus, but like hell he’s going to wash his filthy underwear and jeans here. He balls them up tightly and shoves them at the bottom of his duffel bag. He’ll just do wash when he gets back to Bozeman. Caleb isn’t due back until Sunday evening anyway.

—

Pratt tries to be early to the Sheriff’s Department. Whitehorse is expecting him at 9am. He manages to squeeze in at four-after and smiles sheepishly at Nancy when she waves him in the direction of the Sheriff’s door without putting down the phone.

Gripping his bic pen tightly, Pratt heads for the Sheriff’s office down the hall. The door is cracked open but Pratt knocks, wincing as the frosted glass panel rattles slightly. It’s kinda loose.

“Come in, Pratt,” the Sheriff says. And Pratt’s heart rate picks up. 

He hasn’t even started his new job yet and he’s already fucking up. Whitehorse is probably just doing this as a favor for Pratt’s mom. He likes her, he’s always liked her. Not in some sort of romantic way, at least Pratt doesn’t think so. But they always talked when the Sheriff would pass by the clustered bank of cheap houses set in closer to the road than the standard Hope County farm plot where Pratt and his mom live. Decent housing for those who couldn’t afford more land. And his mom would always shovel off food to Whitehorse. She never really got the hang of only cooking for two people. But she was also too stubborn to move back to Texas with her family when Pratt’s dad bailed on them.

Opening the door, Pratt tries to stand up straight as he walks in. Whitehorse gestures to the chair across from him and opens up the filing cabinet drawer at his feet.

“Had Carol make the copies yesterday,” Whitehorse explains, dropping the manila folder on the desk between them. “She should’ve put x’s everywhere you need to sign.”

Pratt grabs the edge of the folder, opening it up. There are about a dozen documents inside. His contract, releases for background checks, stuff for his insurance policy. Whitehorse explained most of it to Pratt over the phone when he made the offer. Pratt’s only question was if his employment could get his mom proper health insurance. It can’t. But Pratt’s probably not going to find an insurer who will let a kid file for his parent. At least this way he can probably earn enough to help with his mom’s bills as they come up.

He uses his pen to sign everything. It seems silly now. Just a cheap plastic pen from the gas station. But it’s something he can keep as a memento of this moment. Everyone assumed he was about to take the path of least resistance. Pratt has never been particularly good at anything. Average grades, average looks, average everything. But at least he got this job.

When he finishes up signing next to all the x’s, Whitehorse shakes his hand. Pratt goes to hand the folder over to him, but Whitehorse says he can take it to Nancy. She can hold it until Carol comes in and she needs take a photocopy of Pratt’s driver’s license. 

Nancy is still on the phone, but holds out her hand to take the folder and Pratt’s ID. Swiveling around in her chair, she makes the copy that she needs. Pratt tries to not eavesdrop in on her conversation, but she says something about a _Joseph Seed_ and Pratt zones in on the name. _J SEED_ on the stranger’s jacket last night. Couldn’t be….from half the conversation, it sounds like Joseph Seed is some sort of preacher. That can’t fucking be right. No way.

She hands back his license and shoos Pratt away. Dumbly, he heads out to the parking lot. He’s got a couple of days left with his mom, and he really shouldn’t spend them worrying about some guy he’s never going to see again.

—

The cramped little two bedroom Pratt shares with Caleb is supposed to be empty when he gets back to campus on Sunday afternoon. Caleb’s flight from LA back into Bozeman-Yellowstone isn’t supposed to arrive until 8:14pm. But when Pratt opens the door, he’s welcomed to his roommate/best friend/possibly also the death of him sprawled out across the couch and holding one of the Stellas Pratt specifically forbade Caleb from pilfering.

“Hey man!” Caleb says, flipping from his back onto his stomach so that he can get a better look at Pratt in the doorway. The tv is on, set to ESPN and playing highlights. “How was your mom?”

“Fine,” Pratt answers, “she asked about you.” Caleb and Pratt have been close since they were kids. In a community with such a small population, being born within three years of another kid pretty much defaults them to your best friend. Caleb is only seven months younger and they’ve always been in the same grade, along with the youngest Hudson girl, Marie, and Vald Nelson, who always just went by “V” because his parents gave him a dumbass name.

Caleb’s parents had to move out of Hope County to North Dakota for work, six weeks before the end of their senior year of high school. So he could finish out the semester, Caleb ended up living with Pratt and his mom until the end of the school year. After all, they were already planning to room together at Montana State. They ended up living out of each other’s pockets those six weeks. Basically never being apart longer than the one class they didn’t share (Caleb’s weird, single-student math class so he could take the AP exam in calculus, which he then unceremoniously failed).

Pratt is way past being embarrassed by anything Caleb might say or do. Though he kind of wonders now, four years later, how he survived those weeks. For God’s sake, they shared a bed and he woke up every morning with Caleb’s octopus arms wrapped around him and his morning wood shoved against Pratt’s ass. Pratt had kind of known already that maybe he was attracted to other guys, at least as much as he was attracted to girls. But, for some reason, Caleb’s easy affection was tolerable as weird, but ultimately platonic.

“I’ll come visit her this summer,” Caleb says, “if you’ll have me?”

As far as Pratt knows, Caleb’s current after-graduation plan is to head to North Dakota with his parents and see where life takes him from there. It hasn’t really hit Pratt yet that he might not see his friend again for who knows how long.

“Yeah, of course man,” Pratt says.

He doesn’t take Caleb’s early arrival as weird or unwelcome until he’s in his tiny bedroom, that fits a twin bed and not much else, and unpacking and he realizes he’s got to wash his shit from that night. His face flushes bright with embarrassment remembering how stupid he really was. But the main problem is that the washer/dryer unit is in the living room.

Whatever, it can just wait until tomorrow. He tosses the soiled clothes into the basket in his closet and heads back out to the kitchen to grab a beer.

He flops down, half on top of Caleb who has rolled onto his back again. Pratt leans against him, resting his head against Caleb’s chest and tilting so he can see the television, Caleb’s stupidly long legs spread just enough that Pratt can fit between them.

“How was your trip?” Pratt asks, carefully trying to maneuver his beer so he can take a sip without actually having to sit up.

“‘S fine. Warm. Hooked up with some California girl, she was pretty but like, you know, _too pretty_.”

“‘Too pretty,’ what the fuck, Caleb,” Pratt laughs a little. As far as he knows, Caleb is straight. Just incredibly affectionate with everyone. He’s not technically a looker or anything, but he’s tall, with brown hair and a beard that makes him look older than 21 and he has a definite sort of appeal.

Caleb explains, “you know, like too perfect. I don’t know. It’s stupid. It’s not like I’m going to see her again. She gave me her number, but she lives in _California_ ”. Yeah, and for Pratt and Caleb, California might as well be a different fucking planet.

Pratt bites into his lip, he’s pretty sure Caleb can’t see his discomfort. Part of him wants to tell Caleb about his own dumb sexcapade. Not details. Because Caleb hasn’t really given him any about his hook-up. But Caleb is the only person who knows Pratt is (probably) bisexual so there isn’t anyone else to tell. And it’s not like Pratt is going to see the red-head again either. He’s never seen him in Hope County before, he’s certain. The guy was just driving through the valley. Maybe a hunting trip at most.

“I uh...hooked up too…”

“Holy shit!” Caleb exclaims, half sitting up in excitement before he remembers that Pratt has been using him as a human pillow, “Who was it? Was Marie there? Or—“

“No, no,” Pratt quickly corrects, “no one that we know. Just uh, some guy I’ve never seen before. Passing through I guess.”

Caleb’s hazel eyes go wide at that, “Dude, you hooked up with a _guy,_ in _Hope County_? That’s amazing!”

Pratt can’t say he understands Caleb’s enthusiasm, but the unconditional support is nice.

Dropping his head back against the armrest, Caleb mouths, “wow, fucking wow.” He doesn’t press Pratt for more details, so it turns out that Caleb Nylander at least has an ounce of tact left in him.


	2. Chapter 2

For graduation Caleb’s parents fly into Missoula just so they can drive through Hope County in their rental to pick up Pratt’s mom on the way to Bozeman. That’s a hell of a drive, and Pratt and his mom are grateful for them going out of their way.

Caleb and Pratt’s dinky apartment can’t really fit all five of them, and Caleb’s dad, just as tall as his son and with much broader shoulders, just looms in the living room, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. The May weather is hot and Pratt opts for just a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dress slacks under his robes. Caleb tries to get away with an old Call of Duty tshirt and cut off jean shorts, but Mrs. Nylander quashes that idea fast.

Once they get to campus they have to take about a million pictures, in every viable combination. Solo shots, ones of just Caleb and Pratt, Caleb and his parents, Pratt and Caleb and Caleb’s parents, Pratt and his mom, Pratt and Caleb and Pratt’s mom, and then roping someone into taking photos of all of them together. 

The actual graduation ceremony is kind of a blur, “NYLANDER” and “PRATT” aren’t anywhere near each other alphabetically on a class of about three-thousand students. Of course, not everyone chooses to walk, but at least a thousand of them do. Pratt pretty much zones out until about halfway through the “Ns” and is still waiting because Caleb is the very last student in his letter group. He cheers as loud as he can manage when Caleb’s name is called and the girl on his left, Pratchett, A., nearly falls out of her chair. Pratt,T., on his right is sound asleep. Pratt doesn’t know either one of them.

After graduation there are more pictures, and dinner. Then back to the apartment to pack up. Pratt has rented a little uhaul van to drive back to Hope County. He doesn’t have that much stuff, but it won’t all fit into his car. His mom can drive his civic and he’ll handle the van. Caleb’s parents got one of those pod things out in their building’s parking lot that will get shipped straight back to their house in Minot.

They don’t actually have to be out of the apartment until the end of the week, and it’s too late to start the drive. Their parents pile back into the Nylander’s rental car to head to the hotel, leaving Pratt and Caleb alone for one last night in their apartment.

Both of them already packed their mattresses, so they just throw the old shitty sheets they plan on throwing out when they leave across the living room floor. The hardwood is coated in a thin layer of dust from all the trips in and out of the apartment today. It gets caught in Caleb’s nostrils and makes him sneeze.

“You’re weak,” Pratt jokes, rolling onto his side.

Caleb throws his arm around Pratt’s shoulders and then his long leg over his waist, pulling Pratt close against his chest and burying his nose in his hair. “Weak for yooou,” Caleb teases.

Neither of them are brave enough to admit they’re going to miss each other.

—

Pratt settles into his job as a deputy about as well as could be expected. There isn’t actually a lot of “crime” in Hope County. The job is more about managing what they can when it comes to meth (they don’t have the fucking resources to do anything other than pick off the obvious suppliers and try to point addicts towards some sort of help before they’re a corpse) and filling out paperwork when someone (usually an animal) causes some sort of property damage, and domestics. There’s the occasional traffic stop and bar brawl. But that’s about it. 

Deputy Hudson takes Pratt on as her pet project right away, slinging her arm over his shoulder and pulling him close, grinning ear to ear. Her littlest sister is just Pratt’s age and Joey seemed so fucking cool when they were kids. Six years older and with her own rifle by the time she was twelve. The younger kids used to watch her shoot but she would never give them a turn. If they hurt themselves it would be her ass on the line.

Mr. Hudson had been the one called upon to fill in when it came to some of the things Pratt’s mom thought were “better discussed between men,” since Pratt’s dad had fucked all the way off before he was even born. But Pratt can’t say Mr. Hudson was much of a father figure otherwise. Just a couple of awkward talks about puberty changes and that he should wrap it up.

Even though he and Hudson don’t get partnered up, hell, most of their dispatches don’t need two deputies, she does her best to make it clear to Froelich and Davies that if they so much as look at Pratt wrong, she’ll have their balls.

She him leaves notes in his desk, mostly in the broken up Spanish they learned in school as much as from their parents, who would have rather they just speak good English and blend in with their peers.

In June, Caleb calls him for the first time since graduation, to tell him that he’s moving to New York. He got an internship there for the next six months, it’s a really good opportunity, though it doesn’t pay. Caleb’s parents work in oil, and have got the money that they can bankroll Caleb on these whims. Pratt tells him that sounds really great, and doesn’t acknowledge that means Caleb isn’t coming to visit this summer.

June turns into July and Pratt is out with Davies, a perpetually exhausted deputy who’s supporting three kids between two ex-wives and he’s only thirty-eight. Davies never lets Pratt drive and the air conditioner is weak, so they leave the windows down as they drive across the valley and up into the mountains. There’s been a call about one of the guests at the Grandview, a tourist who can’t hold his liquor. It’s only two-pm, so Pratt really wants to see how much trouble one amateur fisherman can get into before happy hour.

Turns out that the guest is really more a nuisance than anything else. Just that he’s been terrorizing the other patrons for days and Delphine wants someone to put the fear of god in him before he actually starts a fight. Davies mumbles that he’s too old for this shit and shuffles over, grabbing the man who looks to be in his mid-fifties by the shoulder and asking him if everything’s alright?

Pratt doesn’t do much at all other than stand in the lobby and wait while Davies tries to defuse the situation. Del has a bowl of peppermints on the reception desk, and Pratt grabs one, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth. He clicks it against the inside of his teeth while he listens to Davies explain that if the Sheriff’s department has to come out again, they’ll have no choice but to take him down to the station. And wouldn’t his wife be cross about the intrusion into their holiday?

Del doesn’t want to press charges, she’s just grateful that they came by. That the guest doesn’t think he’s got free run of the place. But she still wants to be able to collect on his reservation for the next ten days.

On their way back out to the car, Davies grumbles that this was a waste of fucking time, they could’ve spent the afternoon at the station where the aircon works. Angrily, he turns the dial to full blast. But while it makes a lot of noise, no cold air actually comes out. Pratt wants to tell him to stop acting like such a little bitch, but thinks better of it as he peels out of of the parking lot.

They’re about half-way down the mountain when the white truck overtakes them, ignoring the solid yellow lines that indicate they’re in a no-passing zone. On top of that, the driver is going about forty in what should be a twenty-five. There’s a reason for those limits, the mountain roads curve and bend and are prone to black ice from early fall into late spring. But while it may be high summer now, motorists are still expected to obey the limits.

Davies turns on the lights, beeps the siren and heads out in pursuit. The white truck is already around the bend, but Davies makes the turn and they hit a straightaway. He beeps the siren again and the truck driver seems to get the idea, pulling over to the side.

Putting the cruiser into park, Davies tells Pratt to take the lead. Should be an easy enough stop for the rookie. Pratt wants to tell him that he can handle this one by himself, but he knows the other deputies, save for Hudson, don’t think he can do dick yet. He’s on probation, not a fucking baby.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the passenger side, making sure he stands up straight as he heads to talk to the driver of the truck. Davies is two steps behind him, boots crunching against the debris on the pavement.

“Hello,” Pratt looks over to get a visual on the driver and his mouth goes dry. “Sir,” he barely manages, “license…”

If the red-haired stranger recognizes Pratt, he doesn’t give any indication. He lifts up his hips to grab his wallet from his back pocket, flipping through to pull out his driver’s license.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” Pratt runs on autopilot, scanning his eyes over the man’s Georgia driver’s license so he doesn’t have to look directly at him. And, of course he wouldn’t say anything, not with Davies hovering just behind Pratt, watching his every move. The guy is obviously closeted, and even so, it’s not like he would bring up that time he fucked Pratt against the tailgate of his truck.

This….truck….

“Why don’t you tell me?” he asks, challenging Pratt to answer.

“You passed us in a no-passing zone…” his voice trails off, “I’m going to go run your license.”

The man nods in acknowledgement, keeping both his hands on the wheel.

Davies follows Pratt back to the car. He doesn’t get back in, just planting his hands on the roof and leaning through the window to watch as Pratt runs the stranger’s…. _Jacob Seed’s_ information. Pratt tries not to give away that he’s interested in Jacob more than is absolutely necessary to issue this ticket. But, fuck _1971_. 

There’s nothing outstanding on Jacob, and Pratt manages, somehow, to finish filling out the ticket. They didn’t get an exact read on Jacob’s speed, but they can at least cite him for the illegal passing. Davies watches him from next to the car as Pratt heads back to Jacob, ticket in hand.

“Here,” Pratt shoves the ticket and Jacob’s license through the open window, “have a nice day, sir.”

Jacob looks up into his rearview mirror before he takes the documents from Pratt. Checking that Davies is still back by the squad car. “You live alone, Deputy,” Jacob reads the patch over his shirt pocket, “Pratt?”

“No,” Pratt whispers, “with my mom,” and he immediately regrets saying it.

But Jacob chuckles in a way that’s definitely mocking but also weirdly warm, “of course you do. Shame.” Taking the ticket and his ID, he tells Pratt to “have a good day, Deputy. Sorry for troubling you and your partner.”

—

Back at the station, Pratt tries to discreetly pull up Jacob’s information again from the database. Technically, he sort of has cause to do it. He did issue the man a ticket an hour ago. Just following though for anything he might have missed. As the junior most deputy, Pratt has the desk tucked in over in the crowded corner between the filing cabinets, but it also means no one walks behind him at any point.

He searches for Jacob by his name, and date of birth, limiting his results to Georgia. There’s really not much to see. His license address says Rome, GA, but Pratt is fairly certain he just hasn’t gotten around to getting a Montana ID. His truck has Montana plates.

There’s his height and weight (6’3”, 210lbs, and fuck, Pratt believes it from his big and heavy Jacob’s body felt pinning him against the tailgate. Caleb is about that tall but easily 25 pounds lighter), eye color (blue, but Pratt knows that from observation) and a list of some past misdemeanors. Mostly public intoxication, one instance of assault. All back in Rome and nothing within the last two years though. Nothing to indicate if he’s married or not.

Nancy had mentioned a different Seed, hadn’t she? Months ago. Pratt only sort of remembers because it was the morning after his encounter with Jacob and the name caught his attention. J something, but not Jacob. That’s not enough to go on.

Closing out of the database, Pratt tries his best to look bored but probably only pulls off anxious. It’s still another two hours until his shift is over and he’s really wondering if he can pry something out of Nancy. Fuck, if Jacob had just changed his driver’s license, Pratt might have a way of finding him. And Pratt thinks maybe Jacob wants to be found, right? That’s what the question was about...if he lived alone? Why else would Jacob ask? Then again, if Jacob _is_ married, he probably wouldn’t want Pratt snooping around where his wife might notice. Pratt didn’t see a ring, but you never know. 

God...and would he really be okay with that? Fucking someone else’s husband? Someone closeted is one thing. Hell, Pratt is still pretty, uh, discreet. Caleb knows, but not his mom. He plans on telling her, really, if it becomes an issue. If he somehow meets a guy who means enough to him that he wants to introduce him to his mom. But she just doesn’t need to know that Pratt is running around trying to get back into the pants of someone almost her age who may or may not be married.

Pratt pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have to be careful about hiding that he’s messing around on it. Whitehorse doesn’t care what they use to fill their empty time, as long as they do their jobs first. And Pratt is long done with the Seed ticket and Davies wouldn’t let him do the report on the incident at the Grandview.

He exits out of Candy Crush and goes into his browser, googling “Jacob Seed Rome GA” to see if there are any results. Google asks him if he means _Joseph_ Seed and he lights up in recognition. Yeah, that’s the name Nancy mentioned. Joseph.

There are a handful of local news articles from Rome, the most recent from last September. Pratt reads through the first news result and manages to glean a bunch of information from that. Joseph is (was?) the head of a congregation called “Eden’s Gate,” which became rapidly popular with the locals. But in August, one of the Gate’s former members, a man named Gavin Cabot, age 37, disappeared. From what Pratt can figure, charges were never brought against Joseph Seed, age 39, or any of the other members of Eden’s Gate, but Pratt knows small-town mentality enough to figure even the suggestion that Joseph could have been involved would be enough for rumors to persist. The headline is more about the congregation leaving Rome en masse, and less about the disappearance. Some 150 people picking up their lives and following Joseph Seed, a modern, self-imposed exodus. 

The article doesn’t mention a Jacob Seed, but there is a John Seed, 28, formerly John Duncan, younger brother to Joseph and prominent Atlanta lawyer, despite his youth, who initially acquired the derelict slaughterhouse property where Joseph preached until his exile.

Pratt goes back out to google and this time tries, “Joseph Seed Hope County Montana,” and this time it asks him if he means “ _John_ Seed Hope County Montana?” so he tries that instead. He gets a bunch of publically available real estate transactions between John Seed and some locals, names he recognizes. Mostly elderly couples in the county, ones whose kids, older than Pratt, moved away when they were grown and left their parents with farms and no one who wanted to inherit. His mom and Whitehorse used to talk about it, even when Pratt was back in high school.

It looks like John Seed has purchased six properties in the county since March. Pratt is certain now that Jacob is related to these other Seeds, though he can’t find a reference to him. He tries “Jacob Seed Rome Georgia” again, but can’t find anything that lines up. Then “Jacob Seed Hope County Montana” and nothing there either. Just the references back to Joseph and John. But Jacob’s license came up legit so he’s clearly a real person. Just not one with any sort of online presence. 

He shouldn’t do it...but Pratt opens up the police database on his desktop again. He could search one of the brothers and see what he gets. But John and Joseph Seed might be kind of common names, so he’s sure to get a lot of false hits. He can narrow it down to Georgia but what he’s really interested in is an address here in Montana.

John is probably the safer bet. Pratt already knows he’s bought property in the county, so maybe he’s got more official documentation than his brothers. He types in SEED, JOHN and limits results to Montana. If John was 28 when that story was published last year, that means he was either born in 1985 or 1986. He tries ‘85 first and comes up with nothing, then ‘86 and gets a result.

John Seed’s driver’s license photo pops up on screen, along with his other vitals. Pratt guesses he looks kind of like Jacob. They have similar long faces and thick beards. The bright blue eyes too. But John is….well, he kind of looks like some sort of model in a European fashion magazine. Groomed and perfectly handsome, with dark hair and unblemished skin, though there’s a strange dark smudge on his neck just where the photo cuts off which might be some sort of tattoo or birthmark. Hard to tell. He’s listed as 5’10” and 165 lbs, making him substantially smaller than Jacob. But Pratt thinks there’s enough similarity in the face that he’s on the right track.

Pratt scribbles down John’s address, vaguely recognizing it as the Garrison Ranch to the west of Fall’s End. Shoving the note into his pocket, he exits out of the database again.

He spends the rest of his shift playing on his phone, pointedly not searching for more news articles about the Seeds and Eden’s Gate and what they did in Rome. That’s just a rabbit hole he doesn’t have to go down. By the time Joey shows up to relieve him, he’s starving. She messes up his hair before he can stand up and get out from under her reach. Barking, “hit the showers, kiddo,” she’s clearly still excited that she’s no longer the junior deputy.

Pratt makes it out to his car, sitting in the driver’s seat. The slip of paper is heavy in his pocket. He doesn’t actually need the address to go by, he’s pretty sure he can find the place without it now. But what the fuck was he _thinking?_. He can’t just drive up to John Seed’s property and say, ‘hey yeah, I think your older brother thigh-fucked me against his tailgate a few months back. Anyway, I’m looking for him because I’d like a repeat performance.’ FUCK.

Taking the address back out of his pocket, Pratt balls it up and drops it into the door well along with the receipts and wrappers that just sort of live there now.

—

The memory of Jacob Seed doesn’t go away, swirling around his head like some sort of incessant cloud. But the fact remains, even if Pratt found him, what would he do then? Jacob seemed to have...some sort of interest in getting him alone again and Pratt is very okay with that idea. Well, maybe, if Jacob doesn’t have a wife. If he does...god, Pratt doesn’t want to think what it says about himself that he’s maybe okay with that too. He’s still not sure.

Pratt cannot bring him back to his mom’s house. That’s obviously out of the question. And it really seems like Jacob has nowhere private to take him either. Although maybe that’s because he lives with his brothers? That would make sense. Yeah. But the fact remains that the only place they’d have to go is the side of the road again and while that sounds kind of thrilling, Pratt could tolerate a little more privacy, and a lot more mattress.

It’s been about a week since Pratt pulled Jacob over, and he hasn't seen any sign of him since then. August is approaching fast and Caleb hasn’t called again. Probably really busy with his internship in New York. 

Pratt is out on his early morning run, trying valiantly to stay in shape even though he has less free time than he did in college. Usually he can’t manage more than a light jog, three miles on a good day, without tiring himself out too much to make his shift. But the deputy’s job is a lot more sitting around than he expected so it’s not like he’s going to keep up the sort of lean physique he worked so hard for in college just from the activity he has on the job.

He’s about a mile in when the white truck passes him. There’s sun and sweat in his eyes and he can’t quite make out the license plate. But when the truck comes to a halt ten meters in front of him he’s sure. Oh god.

Pratt tries to calm his breathing, keep his hands from shaking, as he approaches the driver’s side window. Jacob has the glass rolled down, his burn-splotched arm hanging out the window, waiting for Pratt to approach.

“Hi,” Pratt manages, “uh…”

“Anywhere you need to be, deputy?”

Pratt wants to tell Jacob not to call him that. But instead he stutters out, “No,” it’s only half after six and he still has another hour and a half before his shift starts. So maybe he doesn’t have all the time in the world, but he also doesn’t want to tell Jacob that he doesn’t have time for him.

God, is that too desperate? Probably. But Pratt hasn’t really had the opportunity to get laid since April and he’s sort of crawling out of his skin anyway. It doesn’t help that his heart rate is already elevated, sweat sticking his tee to his skin and his running shorts riding up. He feels like he’s in a goddamn porno already. And the lazy way Jacob pulls his cigarette out from between his lips doesn’t help.

“You know the barn, bout half mile up the road?” Jacob asks.

“Yeah,” Pratt for the life of him can’t remember who owns the place. But he knows the barn Jacob’s talking about.

Jacob smiles back at him, putting the truck into drive. Pratt barely gets back from the window before Jacob starts pulling away, speeding up the road. Fuck.

Pratt takes off on foot, keeping his normal pace and trying not to look too conspicuous as he heads towards the barn. It only takes him five minutes to get there, and Jacob should have beaten him in the truck, but Pratt doesn’t see the white Ford anywhere and he thinks he might have been duped.

Still, he jumps the wooden fence, trying to stay quiet since technically now he’s trespassing. The barn door is slightly ajar, the chain and lock on the handle open so that Pratt can slip inside.

The interior of the barn is mostly dark, the morning sun not really high enough yet for the skylights to be effective. It’s not totally pitch black either, so Pratt takes another step inside.

A big, sturdy arm wraps around his waist from behind, dragging Pratt backwards against a broad chest. Pratt’s first instinct is to scream, since he’s been startled, but it only takes him a second to register that the warm, firm body behind him is definitely Jacob.

“Mmm,” Jacob hums, wrapping his second arm higher around Pratt’s chest to keep him pinned, “You’re as pretty as I remember.”

Part of Pratt wants to fight him on that, he’s not _pretty_ , he’s a grown man for fuck’s sake. But a larger part of him never wants Jacob to stop praising him. Telling Pratt that he’s _good_.

“And you’re just as big,” Pratt responds, thinking that sounds confident. 

Jacob just hums again, the noise reverberating through his chest and against Pratt’s back. Not wasting anymore time, Jacob moves the arm wrapped around Pratt’s waist lower so he can hike up Pratt’s sweat-soaked shirt.

Pratt realizes he must smell awful from his run. August is fucking hot. But Jacob doesn’t seem to mind, splaying his hand across the flat of Pratt’s stomach and pressing hot kisses to his neck.

“Oh fuck,” Pratt curses, arching his back just enough that he can grind his ass back against Jacob’s crotch. “Fuck, fuck…”

“I’m planning on it,” Jacob jokes, letting Pratt go so he can spin him around and they’re face to face. Crouching slightly, Jacob reaches down to wrap his arms around Pratt’s legs and hoist him up like he weighs fucking nothing and not the 170 he knows he does. Getting the idea, Pratt wraps his legs around Jacob’s hips and his arms around his shoulders. Jacob is grinning like a fool as he carries Pratt deeper into the barn.

Pratt can’t help but snicker about cheesy romance novels when Jacob deposits him on a hay bale nestled in against the wall of the barn. The brittle grass cuts into Pratt’s spine, his shirt still hiked up high along his back. Jacob smiles down at him, asking if he’s hoping for a romance?

And, honestly, the question alone leaves Pratt breathless, because everything feels like it’s moving a thousand miles per hour all at once. Even though this is only their second real encounter in four months.

Jacob doesn’t give Pratt time to answer, leaning over and kissing Pratt’s mouth with a sure, steady ferocity. He kisses Pratt like it _means something_ and it’s hard not to get caught up in the tide.

Standing up straight again, Jacob fishes out three lube packets and a condom from the back pocket of his jeans, tossing them onto the bale next to Pratt. Pratt wants to ask him if he’s been carrying that around since April, but really it’s more likely that he picked the lube up in the last week.

Jacob grabs the elastic waistband of Pratt’s running shorts, encouraging him to lift his hips so that he can pull them off. Pratt obliges, shucking off his tee even though he knows the hay is going to burn the shit out of his back. He doesn’t care.

With Pratt naked, Jacob grabs him by the hips and, god, being manhandled is never going to get fucking old. He drags Pratt until his ass sticks off the side of the bale. Dropping to his knees, Jacob kneels between Pratt’s legs. He grabs one calf in each hand, hoisting them up so that he throws Pratt’s legs over his shoulders. And, god, is Jacob going to suck him off?

Pratt throws his head back, arching as Jacob uses one hand to part his ass cheeks. He’s barely able to register what is happening before Jacob’s mouth descends on his hole, licking a long stripe up to the base of his balls before going back to focus on the rim.

Oh god, oh god, and this isn’t anything anyone has ever done for Pratt. He honestly wouldn’t even think to ask. But Jacob just fucking….goes for it, licking then sucking slightly, getting Pratt wet all the way around the exterior of his hole. It feels good, but sort of strange, Pratt’s just not used to the sensation. But the _idea_ of it, the sight of Jacob’s huge body between his legs, is so fucking hot that Pratt thinks he could die like this.

Jacob pulls away, reaching up onto the bale to grab one of the packets of lube. He rubs the sealed packet between his hands, using friction to warm it up. Pratt honestly doesn’t know if that works or not. Tearing the packet open with his teeth, Jacob smears about half of it over Pratt’s hole, the runny lube dripping between Pratt’s cheeks. The other half he uses to coat two of his fingers, before rubbing them against the outside of Pratt’s hole.

“You doing alright there, Peaches?”

This time, the feeling in Pratt’s stomach is definitely warm, and god, he kind of hates himself for liking it. Jacob knows his name now, he doesn’t have to call him Peaches. And it’s still sort of demeaning in a way. But Pratt is already stupid about all of this, so it’s just one more nail in his coffin that he likes it.

“Yeah,” Pratt huffs, “Yeah I’m good.”

Jacob slides one finger in at first. And with the lube, it’s pretty easy. Pratt stretches around it without a fuss, but he still exhales loudly when Jacob hitches his finger to pad at his prostate and fuck how are his fingers that long?

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt bites out. His abdomen is already embarrassingly wet with precome and he feels like he’s on a hair trigger already.

“Gonna have to open you up more,” Jacob says, as if Pratt doesn’t already know that.

Jacob pulls his finger all the way back out. This time, he presses what feels like both his index and middle finger in together. And yeah, the stretch of that burns a little more. This is so weirdly intimate that Pratt can’t even think all the way through it. The last time he bottomed was...fuck….last November? With Anthony Alonzo, and Pratt had stretched himself open in the bathroom away from prying eyes. He’s never had a guy do it for him (though the only other time he’s even tried this was Mikey Ross the year before).

On top of that, Jacob’s fingers are so much bigger than his own, calloused and knuckles busted up. Pratt can feel every fucking inch inside of him as his walls clamp down around Jacob’s fingers. Jacob rubs his stomach with his other hand, trying to soothe Pratt and whispering, “easy, easy.” Only then does Pratt realize he’s been tensing up. And, god, Jacob really must want to be inside his ass because he’s being so _nice_ to him.

Spreading his fingers wide, Jacob focuses on trying to stretch out Pratt’s rim, twisting gently then letting it contract again around the girth of his fingers. “You’ve done this before, right?” Jacob asks.

The question seems a little late now, but Pratt manages to get out, “Yes.” He doesn’t have the coherence or desire to explain that this is still pretty new for him and honestly a little terrifying and he also doesn’t want to scare Jacob off with his inexperience.

Jacob spreads his fingers one more time before kissing the inside of Pratt’s thigh. He has to put Pratt’s still tennis-shoe clad feet back on the ground so he can shuck his jacket off and open the fly of his jeans. He just shoves them down enough to pull out his cock and balls before reaching for the condom. Standing up, he rolls the condom on and coats it with the second packet of lube.

And god, oh fucking god, this is really the first time that Pratt gets a direct visual on Jacob’s dick, mixing together that arousal-anxious-determined-fear feeling he got before when he could feel it between his thighs. And now he’s expected to fit it inside. Pratt has read...stuff, about how longer, but relatively thin cocks are supposed to be better for anal. Girth over length is typically preferred for vaginal. But Jacob isn’t exactly lacking in either dimension.

Jacob leans over him, kissing Pratt firmly on the mouth, parting his lips with his tongue and giving his cock a couple of firm strokes while he’s at it. “Want it like this or from behind?” Jacob asks, the head of his cock already perilously close to Pratt’s hole.

“Like this,” Pratt admits. He thinks it might be easier if he can see Jacob’s face.

Jacob is slow as he positions his cock against Pratt’s rim. Just as slow pushing in. Pratt feels the warm, blunt cockhead at his entrance, and the way he starts to stretch as Jacob applies pressure. At first, Pratt is certain it won’t go in, even with the lube and Jacob’s careful prep. But Jacob pushes just a fraction harder and the head pops in, Pratt’s body instinctually tensing at the intrusion.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Jacob soothes, running his fingers through Pratt’s sweaty hair. “You’re such a crybaby, aren’t you,” he thumbs against Pratt’s cheek. “Do I need to pull out?”

“Don’t you dare,” Pratt grumbles, sucking down air between his teeth, “don’t...don’t mock me okay,” the stretch is weirdly centering, clearing Pratt’s head compared to the gentle, dizzying ministrations that proceeded. “You know how big you are.”

Jacob waits, just the tip of his cock inside Pratt. Taking another breath, Pratt tells him to move and Jacob starts pressing in. It might be a little too much a little too soon, but Pratt does his best not to show it. Though the fierce way he grabs at Jacob’s scarred forearms might give him away. Jacob bottoms out, but this time doesn’t wait, starting to pull back.

He adopts a steady pace, thrusting into Pratt in unhurried strokes. Pratt’s erection had flagged at first, but steadily fills back up. There’s still that edge of too much, a lingering burn that he doesn’t think will go away. Fuck, honestly it still hurts. But the idea of it is there. The idea that he’s getting fucked by this man in a goddamn barn, like he’s some sort of bitch in heat. And the idea of that is really fucking arousing in a way that Pratt doesn’t want to think too much about.

Jacob kisses Pratt’s jaw, his neck, telling him how good he’s being. How he’s taking it like he was made for this. Ass so sweet for him and such a pretty face. Pratt claws at Jacob’s shirt, trying to get a firm grip on something, anything, as his back rakes against the rough hay and Jacob picks up pace, pounding into him until Pratt feels like screaming. But he can’t, he knows he can’t, because they’re supposed to be hidden in this barn, nobody's supposed to know.

Jacob grunts heavily as he comes into the condom, buried as deep as he’s able to go and holding tightly to Pratt’s fraying body. Pratt barely registers that he’s shaking all over, stimulated but not yet at completion. Jacob pulls out, dropping down Pratt’s body and wrapping his mouth around Pratt’s cock. He barely sucks, pressing two fingers back into Pratt’s hole and he’s coming down Jacob’s throat, covering his mouth with both hands to keep himself quiet.

Jacob spits onto the barn floor, takes off the condom, ties it off, looks for something to hide it in. But there’s nothing. Pratt’s still breathing heavily, aching. Oh god, his ass hurts so badly now. But he doesn’t want to cry again. It was good but also awful. It was everything at once and he doesn’t know how to react.

But Jacob is there, tucked back into his jeans and hoisting Pratt up by his armpits, getting him to gingerly sit up on the bale. He crouches low enough that he can look Pratt in the eyes. “We need to get you dressed.”

“Yeah,” Pratt admits, feeling silly and too sensitive. Jacob is still being kind to him. And maybe that’s what’s got him so messed up.

Jacob finds his shirt and shorts, but lets Pratt dress himself. While he’s managed to get to his feet, he’s still unsteady. 

“I...can’t drive you back,” Jacob says, standing in front of Pratt and cradling his face in both hands. God, it’s so gentle. Pratt wants him to stop.

The realization hits him that he’s a mile and a half from home and he can’t run. Fuck, he’s not even sure he can walk right now. He hurts. Not sharp or excruciating. But the ache is there. There’s no way he can run.

“I know,” Pratt responds. It’s obvious enough Jacob can’t be seen with him. There’s no plausible reason for them to be friends. People will suspect something if he’s in Jacob’s truck. Fuck, he wishes Caleb were here, then at least Pratt would have someone to call.

“You should leave first,” Jacob says, kissing Pratt’s forehead.

It’s pathetic and desperate, but Pratt has to know, “Can I see you again?” Because, despite everything, Pratt already knows he’s going to want more. He’s so fucked.

“You can’t exactly bring me home to mom,” Jacob jokes.

Pratt sincerely hopes that the noise that comes out of him sounds like a laugh, “could I at least have your number….we can figure something out.”

“Don’t have a phone,” Jacob says. “Give me yours though.”

Pratt is willing to write it down, so at least Jacob can find him if he wants to fuck again. But Jacob just says to tell him it, he’ll remember. So Pratt rattles off his number and Jacob repeats it back to him before sending him on his way.

Pratt walks a slow, limping quarter-mile before Jacob’s truck speeds past him. Defeated, he crouches down in the grass at the side of the road, out of sight, trying not to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Pratt may as well already be late for work by the time he drags his ass through the front door. Predictably, his mother is distraught. When she woke up and found that Pratt wasn’t home from his run, she worried.

“I’m okay,” Pratt tries to soothe her, keeping her at arm’s length when she goes to hug him. “I think I uh, pulled a muscle on my run. I had to walk back, but it’s okay.”

“You should call the Sheriff,” she insists, fussing too much over him, “tell him you cannot come in today.”

“I’m fine,” Pratt promises, “I can’t call out, there’s no one to relieve me.” Technically he has sick days and everything, but god, he cannot fucking use one to call out wrecked from Jacob Seed’s dick. He refuses. “I’ll be fine,” he repeats.

But he is going to be late. That’s unavoidable now. He still needs to shower and oh god, he probably smells like sex, maybe. He doesn’t know. No, he’s in the clear, he’s all sweaty from his run and that’s it. There’s no way his mom knows. She wouldn’t even think of it.

Escaping his mother’s clutches, Pratt slips into the bathroom. He strips out of his clothes, turning his back to the mirror and looking around to get a look at the damage. It’s covered in angry looking scratches from the hay bale. He’s pretty sure the only reason it doesn’t hurt that bad is because the pain in his ass is worse.

While he waits for the water to run hot, he sniffs his shirt. Okay, it doesn’t really smell like anything but his sweat. He was sort of afraid it would smell like Jacob and his mom would notice someone else’s deodorant on him.

He’s a bit more confident now about just tossing his workout clothes into the wash. He gets showered as quickly as he can and only half-dries himself before heading to his bedroom to get dressed. 

On his way out the door his mother points out that he hasn’t eaten, but Pratt has no choice but to brush her off. It’s two-past-eight already and if he speeds a little bit, he can be to the station before twenty-after. Whitehorse will be disappointed in him but he’s been on time and present every other day since he started working. So maybe he’ll overlook Pratt’s tardiness this one time.

—

Jacob doesn’t call him in the next week, nor the next. It’s entirely possible that he forgot Pratt’s number. After all, he didn’t write it down. Or maybe the moment has just passed. Could’ve been that Pratt wasn’t that good a fuck. But then again, he didn’t do much of anything. Just sort of...laid there and took it. Pawed at Jacob’s shirt while he fucked into him. That could be the problem too. Maybe there was something that Pratt should have been doing, but wasn’t? 

He knows that he’s always liked it when women are more active, crawling on top and riding him. It’s fucking hot. Or even just being really vocal and trying to thrust back onto his dick when he’s fucking them from behind. Yeah, it’s not that great when she lays there like a dead fish. Which is more or less what Pratt did when Jacob fucked him.

Pratt did top once in college. Anjit, that was his name, right? They met at a party and then not again afterwards. He was a little drunk that time and it was over pretty quickly. He took Anjit from behind, but Pratt can’t really remember what Anjit did, if anything.

Since he’s a work, he can’t really delve much deeper into this new issue. But Pratt resolves to maybe...check into things when he gets home. Not really for the sake of Jacob, who is probably never calling him. But for his general knowledge. For whatever guy comes next. Right.

He’s on shift with Davies again, as much as both he and Hudson would rather get paired up. They’ve been trying to drop subtle hints to Whitehorse, but he’s not biting. Probably doesn’t trust his two youngest deputies out there on their own. But at least Pratt would have someone to talk to, if Hudson were here.

There’s a call in from the Morris property, little cabin tucked into the hillside. Property damage, probably an elk that got too close to the house, punctured the water tank. But if the family is going to file with the insurance, they need a police report to determine if it was a human or not. The insurance adjusters don’t like crisscrossing the county very much, and always try to offload this shit onto them.

Whitehorse says that Pratt can go alone. Sooner or later he’s going to have to be able to handle calls like this without assistance. They don’t have the staff to have him babysat for the rest of his career. Pratt gets the keys for the cruiser from Whitehorse and the old man wishes him luck.

It’s about forty minutes drive to the property. Though it’s nearly September now, the air hasn’t gotten any cooler. The air in the car is still broken, which is some fucking bullshit.

Pratt makes it to the property. Mr. Morris greets him out front, then shows him to the back where there’s a huge gash through the plastic water reservoir. All Pratt really has to do here is check for footprints, take some photos, and a statement from Morris. Nothing he shouldn’t be able to handle.

He finds elk tracks in the dirt, nothing at all that looks like foul play. Morris says he and his wife had taken the kids to the lake to fish. When they got back, the tank had been cut. Pratt takes pictures of everything. Probably too many pictures. And that’s really that.

Ready to leave, he tosses his gear into the passenger seat, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his back before he has to get into the car. He hears another vehicle coming up the drive. It’s none of his business, but he can’t get back down the path if someone is coming up, so he might as well wait to see who it is.

The white SUV pulls in in front of the Morris’ home. Mr. Morris has already gone back inside. Pratt watches as a man in a blue dress shirt, rolled up to the elbows, gray vest, and dark, tight-fitting jeans climbs out of the driver’s side. His forearms and hands are littered with scratchy tattoos that clash with his otherwise professional attire. When he turns his head to look at Pratt, Pratt recognizes him immediately as John Seed.

“Deputy?” John smiles at him, walking over with his hands resting in his pockets, elbows sticking out. He’s only about an inch shorter than Pratt, and just as slim. Even with the chicken-scratch on his arms, he just looks so _refined_ , from the bridge of his nose, to his haircut, to his gait. Totally out of place in the backwoods of Hope County. And Pratt thinks he finally understands what Caleb meant about the girls in California being too good looking. Because something about John Seed’s face leaves Pratt breathless, but it’s not the same sort of terrifying, aching desire he feels in the presence of his brother.

“Hello—“ Pratt barely remembers that they’ve never met before. He shouldn’t, reasonably, know who John is.

John sticks out his hand, offering it to Pratt, “John Seed, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Could have sworn I’d introduced myself to everyone in the Sheriff’s department when we moved…”

“I started in June,” Pratt explains, “Deputy Pratt.” He really doesn’t offer his first name anymore unless he absolutely has to. Really only Caleb and his mom use it. Now that he thinks about it, Jacob might not know it. His uniform says S. PRATT, but ‘Staci’ isn’t easily guessed.

“Ah,” John smiles at him, “that’s why I didn’t recognize you. I didn’t think it likely that I’d forget a face like yours.”

Normally, that kind of compliment from a man as handsome as John might make Pratt a little nervous, a little interested, but maybe the fact that this is Jacob’s brother sobers Pratt a little, lets him keep his head.

“You have business with the Morris family?” John looks back towards the cabin, “is everything alright?”

Pratt thinks he probably isn’t in a position to tell John about anything, even with a matter so mundane, “Everything is fine, Mr. Seed, the Morris’ are home, if you came up to see them.”

“I did!” he chirps, “that’s wonderful.” John claps Pratt on the shoulder. “Well, I shouldn’t take up your time, Deputy Pratt. And it was a pleasure to meet you. Wouldn’t mind running into you again, sometime.”

Pratt is pretty certain now that he’s being flirted with. Or maybe, no, maybe John is the same sort of straight guy as Caleb. Easy with his affection and always sending out a dozen signals at once. Friendly and approachable and handsome in a way that gets Pratt’s wires crossed.

“Sometime,” Pratt mumbles, getting into the cruiser. He doesn’t wait to see what John’s business with the Morris’ is. He just has to get away.

—

The encounter with John leaves him spooked and Pratt forgets about his “research project” for the time being. But a few days elapse and Pratt’s mom will be out for the next couple of hours, visiting friends in the Henbane.

Pratt plugs his cheap earphones into his laptop. Taking the laptop off his desk, he climbs into bed, getting under the top sheet and resting the computer against his stomach. He opens a private window and just goes to pornhub because he doesn’t have a better idea of where to start. He’s watched gay porn before, yeah. It was fairly key to, uh, figuring himself out. But that was during his freshman year. Since then he’s mostly reverted back to straight stuff, even if his actual sex life has diverted in the other direction. He still really, really likes tits if he’s honest.

He navigates to “Gay” and then “Categories” trying to figure out what’s going to work. This isn’t really about getting off. He’s sincere in wanting to figure out what he should be doing. What Jacob—er, someone else, might expect from him.

Finally he settles on the standby “Bareback” and starts scrolling through, hovering over things that look promising to see the previews. He picks a video that really just looks like two, attractive, dark-haired men with nice bodies and cocks fucking in a bed. 

Pratt skips around in the video, trying to get to the anal scene. The guy bottoming starts out on his back and he watches as the guy on top starts pushing back the bottom’s legs until his ankles are almost up by his ears. After that, he really gets going, slamming into the other guy’s ass, getting the whole bed to shake. The bottom moans a lot, but it really doesn’t look like he’s doing much other than holding his contorted position. Pratt is pretty sure that he can bend that far, if he has help. He’s not a gymnast by any stretch, but he’s in good shape and pretty flexible.

Skipping through again he switches to the part of the video where the bottom guy is riding the top, thighs spread over his hips and bouncing up and down. Okay, okay, so this sort of helps. It doesn’t look really different to similar vaginal scenes Pratt has watched and when women have ridden him. And the bottom guy looks really into it. Pratt knows they’re technically acting and all, but it’s nice to think that he might like it too. Then the bottom does this thing where he grinds his pelvis back and forth on the top’s dick without really thrusting or pulling off. Pratt figures he might try that too.

By this point, he’s pretty hard, just sort of ghosting his hand over his erection through the sheet. This scene is okay, educational, hah! But not quite what’s going to work to get him off.

Besides there’s...something else he was curious about. And now that he’s a little more aroused, he’s bolder in what he’s looking for.

It’s kind of something he’s suspected about himself, maybe for about as long as he’s thought he’s maybe bi. And that’s longer than he usually chooses to admit to himself. He hits back, and back again, this time going to “Rough Sex.”

Pratt looks through the results again, he’s not looking for something too weird...but...he gets to the bottom of the page, clicks the next button, then repeats when he still doesn’t find something he thinks will work. One of the suggested related search terms is “aggressive tops” and that seems like an okay bet. He clicks it, more results. Okay, better, closer. Then chooses one.

Skip around, because there’s never anything good at the beginning. About halfway through the video, he stops. The two men on screen have a bit of an age difference, though not as much as him and Ja—it doesn’t matter. That’s not why he’s here.

The bottom is on his stomach, ass up in the air and _red_ , being held down by the back of his neck, his face buried in the pillow. Pratt backs up a little bit, watching back from the spanking scene instead, listening to the way the bottom moans for it. Watching as the top’s arm muscles bulge. He gets back to the fucking, harder, faster than the video before, hips slamming together, the slap of skin on skin.

Pratt shoves one hand under the sheet to wrap around his cock, working himself as the video runs. As the top starts saying all sorts of nasty shit. _Who's a good bitch? How bad do you want this dick? Slut for it. Say it._ Take it. Pratt hurries to shove the sheet down so he won’t come on it. Pumping himself, he’s already close to his edge. _I’m going to breed you, whore._ The top grabs the bottom by the hair, wrenching his head to one side and shoving his fingers into his mouth until he chokes on it.

He comes, his toes curling and his lungs tight, trying not to make any noise even though he’s home alone. His release splashes against his chest. The moment that he’s finished he stops the video, pulling out his headphones from his ears. He’s always been like this, even with the most vanilla of straight scenes. It’s just kind of awkward and disgusting when he’s not aroused. Grabbing tissues from his nightstand, he wipes up his mess. He’ll take the trash out before his mom gets home.

But for now, he exits out of his browser window and closes the lid to his laptop. Just sort of lays in bed under the single sheet, trying to process.

He thinks...maybe kinda, sort of, he might be a little bit, uh, into the idea of getting tossed around, roughed up. Whatever. Not really...submissive. He doesn’t want to be passive. That’s what started this little adventure. But he might like...being put in his place. He still doesn’t know. But that video was hot as hell and he might go back to it another day. More experimentation. Won’t hurt anyone. Nah.

—

Deputy Gilmore gets back from maternity leave and, blissfully, that means that Hudson and Pratt are both off-shift for the first time since they started working together. Hudson says that she’ll meet him at the Spread Eagle at eight, since they both, technically, live within walking distance.

Hudson has been renting the Fairgrave’s coach house for the last couple of years. Just to give herself a little bit of distance from her parents. The apartment is pretty private too. The only other real option other than ponying up the money for a down payment on a house is moving into one of the trailer parks. And Hudson says the idea of that makes her feel like a sardine. Pratt’s been looking into it. It’s really the only way he’s going to be able to move out of his mom’s place.

It doesn’t matter to his mom if he makes a dollar or a million, she’s always going to expect him to live at home. She’s never going to kick him out. God, she might even be upset that he’s thinking of finding a place of his own. It would be one thing, if he was getting married, or even had a girlfriend he was going to live with. His mom isn’t that old fashioned. But it just won’t make sense to her that he wants to move out on his own, when she loves having him at home.

Hudson is already at the bar by the time Pratt arrives, he did have to walk the three-quarters of a mile, after all. She’s saved the barstool next to her, patting the vinyl seat for Pratt to take his place. Mary May is behind the bar, just this year she’s old enough to serve. She’s three whole days older than Caleb, which still makes him the youngest in their tiny class from high school.

“This is cool, right?” she asks. Pratt realizes this is the first time he’s actually been to the Spread Eagle and can drink. He’s turning 22 pretty soon. When they were kids, he and Caleb talked about coming here once Caleb turned 21, but they never got the chance.

Pratt smiles back at Mary May, “Yeah, guess we’re totally adults now.” She hands him a Miller High Life before he actually asks for anything. Must’ve remembered that six-pack they got Hurk Drubman to buy them when they graduated from high school. Pratt hadn’t picked it out or anything. But he’s not about to admit how fussy he’s become about his beer.

Mary May has to tend to other patrons, leaving Hudson and Pratt to themselves. They talk, mostly about work. Pratt asks about her parents and she asks about his mom. Though they’ve gotten closer over the last couple of months, they don’t have a ton of time to talk face to face when they’re running different shifts. Most of their friendship has been built on Hudson’s little notes.

“Hey, weird question though,” Hudson starts, “have you heard of a guy named Joseph Seed?”

Pratt is about ready to melt down to the floorboards and disappear, because his first thought is that he’s been found out. Then again, Hudson asked about Joseph, so there’s probably a totally reasonable reason why that has nothing at all to do with Pratt’s sex life.

He could lie here, say he knows nothing. But that might just make him look suspicious if he’s supposed to know about the preacher. So he finally settles on, “Read a little about him in the news….a pastor from somewhere in Georgia, right?”

“I guess,” Hudson wrinkles her nose and takes another sip from her Bud Lite. “The members of his congregation are pretty weird, from what I’ve heard. Saw a couple of them at the farmers market in the Henbane the other week. Anyway, he has this brother—“

Pratt holds his breath.

“John. Came around the Fairgrave’s, trying to buy the house.”

“Oh,” Pratt replies, pretty interested in his mostly empty bottle.

“They told him they weren’t selling. Mary May said that he offered her folks some insane amount for the property. But they’re not going anywhere, so,” Hudson shrugs.

“You think it’s weird?” Pratt asks.

Hudson rolls her eyes, “Yeah I guess. I don’t know. I guess churches need land and shit. Maybe they just wanted something in Fall’s End. Just seemed like a lot of money to be throwing around.”

Pratt admits to her, “I met John Seed, at the Morris’ when I went out on that elk call last week.”

“Did you?” she perks up again. “Total sleazy lawyer type, right?”

“Yeah,” Pratt just follows her lead, “totally.”

In his front pants pocket, his phone starts buzzing. He pulls it out to check the screen. An unknown number, but in Hope County. He tells Hudson he has to take this call.

Slipping out of the bar, Pratt walks around to the back, hopefully far enough away that interlopers are unlikely to hear his conversation. “Hello?” he asks and waits for a response.

“Peaches.”

“Hi,” he doesn’t dare say Jacob’s name. His heart rate picks up as he walk a little further behind the bar, hopping over the low wooden fence that separates the town from the adjacent field. He wants to put distance between himself and anyone who might overhear. 

“You talked to my brother.”

Ice runs through Pratt’s veins. Nervously, he whispers, “I didn’t tell him anything. I swear. I wouldn’t.”

“Shh, shh,” Jacob hushes him, “tell me what happened.”

“I was responding to a call,” Pratt explains, “up at the Morris cabin. Your brother John showed up. He just introduced himself. That’s it I swear. I didn’t tell him about…”

Jacob responds, “It’s okay. He just told me he met a Deputy Pratt the other day. He didn’t...say anything strange to you. Did he? Make you uncomfortable?”

Pratt wonders if he should tell Jacob if he thought he was being flirted with. He settles on, “he was really friendly.”

Jacob laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s amused, “John can be like that.”

“Is this your phone or—“

“I’m calling from a payphone,” Jacob explains. “I can’t get away right now. Too busy. But I wanted to make sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Pratt feels sort of warm all over, that Jacob cares about how he’s doing. “I miss you…” he admits hoping to elicit some sort of response from Jacob.

“I’ll work something out. Soon,” he says. “Be good.” Jacob hangs up after that.

Pratt’s giddy as he walks back to the bar, smiling from ear to ear. He has to calm down before he goes inside, of Hudson will know something is up. Squeezing his fists tight, he tries to dispel some energy before opening the door.

Hudson grabs him once he’s inside, shoving another High Life in his direction and exclaiming it’s time for pool.

She asks him after the break who he was talking to?

Without hesitating, he answers, “Caleb.”

—

Pratt is on patrol in the Henbane the next week, driving from one end to the other, just so that the Sheriff’s office has a presence, when he sees Jacob next. Well, sees him from a distance, at least.

He’s coming around the bend in the cruiser, the road hugging the river, when he catches sight of a fatigue jacket and a shock of red hair. He can’t stop, that would be suspicious, and Jacob isn’t alone. Even though the entire group of them is a blur, it looks like maybe four or five people in total, and a boat. Pratt has to keep on driving, but there’s a ridge further up where he’d be able to see the dock and stay mostly out of sight. Getting there won’t follow the route he’s supposed to take. But fuck it.

It takes Pratt about five minutes to get up to the ridge. It’s far enough away that he grabs his binoculars so that he can better see. His behavior is suspicious as hell for sure, and totally unwarranted. But he last heard from Jacob a week ago and it’s been so long since he’s actually seen him. More than anything, Pratt is curious about the people who Jacob is with. And he doesn’t think they’re likely to notice him up on the ridge. Technically, Jacob and the others are out on public land, so Pratt can watch them all he likes. Yeah!

The group is still standing by the dock, five of them in total. Jacob is turned slightly away from the ridge, more towards the boat. But he’s so tall that the others in the group don’t really block Pratt’s view of his profile. His arms are crossed over his chest and it looks like he may be giving orders, subtly gesturing to the three men across from him and then to the boat.

Pratt doesn’t recognize any of the men. And they don’t seem to have much in common, other than being dressed in whites and creams. All three have thick, bushy beards and unkempt hair. So different from how Jacob usually keeps his neatly styled. They look to be between the ages of twenty and forty, one Black, two white. At least two of them have open carry, but it’s Montana so of course they do. Jacob has a big hunting knife strapped to his leg.

It’s the final person who gives Pratt pause. A woman, tall and slim, with a handsome face, rather than really pretty. Pratt would place her at about thirty-five, no younger. Long black hair that reaches the middle of her back, a white flower tucked behind her ear. Too far away to see the color of her eyes. She’s dressed in white as well, a loose, flowing dress that catches in the breeze. Her shoes are flat but even still, she’s probably close to six-feet tall, estimating from her relative height next to Jacob. They’re standing next to each other, close. When she speaks, she touches Jacob’s shoulder with an easy sort of intimacy.

Pratt’s stomach flips and he really wants to puke. Part of him has known all along but fuck. Seeing it is something else. He thinks….he thinks he might be terrible because his first thoughts are about himself, what he wants, rather than what he’s maybe doing to this woman. That he’s some sort of home wrecker, like he suspected. And that he’s still not sure that’s going to be enough to make him stop.

The party breaks up soon after. The three men get into the boat and speed out. Jacob helps the woman into the passenger side of his truck before circling to the other side to drive.

Pratt moves back from the edge of the ridge, but he’s still too dizzy to get back inside his car. He leans with his back against the door and his ass in the dirt. Just waiting to be fine enough to drive. It takes a couple of minutes, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out anymore and he climbs into the cruiser. He has to finish out his patrol.


	4. Chapter 4

After that, Pratt both stops thinking about seeing Jacob again and can’t stop thinking about seeing Jacob again.Another encounter with Jacob becomes this sort of loose, indistinct possibility. Knowing now that he can’t control Jacob’s whims, that Jacob is likely bored of him, that Jacob has an attractive, age appropriate, girlfriend or wife, is oddly freeing. Allows him to fully indulge in the fantasy of it when he’s alone, working his cock, and increasingly fingering his hole, in the quiet dark of his bedroom.

The porn he watches changes too. He might still start out with straight stuff, watching some pretty model play with her pussy while she sucks some big cock without a face. Her tits bouncing when she starts getting plowed from behind. But it doesn’t get him all the way there. Or, rather, it’s not what he wants. He gives in, looks at stuff tagged as “Daddy,” (though the implication there makes his stomach churn, that’s not the part he likes. And he’s actually ruined some of his better sessions when the younger man cries out the word he finds so disgusting, his hard-on wilting in response and he has to start over from square one).

They don’t have to be redheads, that’s irrelevant, but he wants them to be big, broad, well muscled. And yeah, he does like if the younger guy maybe looks a bit like him. Brunets, not too pale, in shape but not quite what could be categorized as “hunk.” He’s getting more proficient with the gay categories now. But in straight porn too he always liked it better if the guy was Latino or “Mediterranean” looking or whatever, if he could project a little.

He likes it a little hard, but not fetish stuff, which he tries, briefly, and decides it’s just not for him. He likes it when the younger guy fights back, clawing and raking his nails and refusing to be good and as a result being _good._ It’s still a little muddy to think through to completion. 

By the end of September he has enough saved up to put a down payment on a home. And he earns more than enough to make the payments and the assessment fees at Silverlake. He leaves a note in Joey’s desk, in English, because his Spanish is even worse than hers, if she wants to come with him to check it out? They both have a sliver of time on Thursday afternoon off and he’d rather not go alone. Going with his mom is out of the question, she’ll just try and guilt him into staying.

Hudson texts him when she gets the note that she’ll be there! He texts back that he can pick her up at 12:30 when he gets off shift and they’re sure to be done by 8 when she goes on.

Thursday comes and Pratt is right on time picking up Hudson. She’s dressed in a loose tee and jean shorts, frayed at the edges. She’s got long, toned legs and just for a second Pratt thinks about what they might feel like wrapped around his head but quickly dismisses the thought. He’s not actually attracted to her. He just hasn’t gotten laid since July and his hand is a little too familiar now to be exciting.

—

Pratt doesn’t tell his mom he’s moving until all the paperwork is signed, the checks cleared. He knows that she’s going to be upset that he’s gone behind her back arranging everything. But had he been more upfront, she would have fought him at every turn.

It’s a week before his scheduled move and he has to tell her. He has to start packing up his things. The home he ended up picking out is pretty small, so he’ll end up leaving a lot of his stuff behind. It’s not like he’s planning on cutting his mother off, he still thinks he’ll be around a lot. But he’s going to pitch it to her as a privacy thing. As much as she might think it’s perfectly normal for her grown son to live at home, most of Pratt’s dating prospects aren’t going to see it that way (and she doesn’t need to know that a number of those prospects might be men, not yet).

Pratt isn’t really thinking that seriously about dating anyone. Yeah, there are a handful of women in the county who are single and around the right age for him. But he’s kind of already ruled all of them out. He wasn’t that interested in high school and he’s not interested now. The one time he tried was with Jess Black, a year above him. He’d taken that rejection with her boot to his upper thigh.

Hook-ups are easier. There’s always a steady stream of tourists coming through for the fish and game. Most of them are men, though. Which, in Pratt’s case, isn’t entirely unwelcome. He just has to be discreet with his profile on Grindr. Can’t make it super obvious who he is, in case a local does see. But he thinks he might be able to at least find someone to have sex with without having to drive all the way to Missoula every week. 

He’s young. Twenty-two, his birthday having unceremoniously passed. And he shouldn’t want something too serious yet. That’s perfectly normal. Maybe in five years or so, he’ll reassess, have to worry about finding someone more stable. Someone he can build a life with. But that’s still far away. Right now, he can just explain to his mom that he needs a little more privacy, some independence. And he’s not even moving that far away.

He tells her after dinner, and her eyes get wide and wet right away. She asks him what she did to drive him away? And he has to plead with her it’s nothing. He just needs to do this. She says he should have told her, she says he’s being selfish, she says a lot of things, but ultimately, she says he loves him. Pratt’s shoulders relax at that, he promises that she’ll still see him all the time. He’s not going very far.

She helps him pack his things, mostly just his clothes, his electronics, a couple of odds and ends. He’s already called the storage company that has most of his larger stuff from college packed away, when they realized it wouldn’t fit in the house. So he already has a bed, a cheap little kitchen table that might just barely fit in the ‘dining nook.’

Even when he moves his things, it doesn’t fully feel like letting go.

—

Unknown Number, Hope County, MT.

Pratt’s phone vibrates on his desk.

He’s on shift, and can’t really get away for long, but he grabs his phone, telling Davies and Hudson that he’ll be right back, he has to take this call. Davis shrugs. Hudson’s eyes follow him out the door.

Pratt picks up in the parking lot, but doesn’t say anything until he’s sitting in his civic, “Hi?” he tries, fairly certain of who will be on the other end of the line.

“You moved,” Jacob says.

“Yeah,” Pratt says without even really thinking. How would Jacob know he moved? It’s not a secret, he’s sure that his mother has told all her friends. All of Pratt’s coworkers know. But all the same, Jacob otherwise seems kind of cut off from the gossip mill. Keeping to himself. Pratt hasn’t even seen him around since that time he spied on Jacob out in the Henbane. An adult man moving out on his own can’t be that interesting, though Pratt is sure his mom would have exaggerated how dramatic the separation was.

“Could come see you,” Jacob drawls, “now that you’re alone.”

Pratt’s heart skips a beat, because yes, _yes_. As much as he’d given up on the idea of seeing Jacob again, he’ll jump at the opportunity.

“When?” he asks.

“Could make time tomorrow morning. When do you work?”

Oh, that works perfectly. Pratt’s shift doesn’t start until noon. “Okay, I’m at Silverlake,” he tells Jacob, though he might already know.

“It’ll be early,” Jacob says, “I’ll knock.”

“How early?” not that it matters to Pratt, but he should set an alarm. He can be a deep sleeper.

“Between five and six. It’s the best I can do.”

Pratt rushes to let Jacob know, “that’s fine! I’ll be waiting...I’m at work now,” he looks up in his rear view mirror. Hudson has just stepped out into the parking lot. “I have to go.”

“It’s okay,” Jacob soothes, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Hanging up, Pratt tries to look calm as he gets out of the car. Hudson is definitely watching him, concern etched across her face. She meets him in the middle of the parking lot, and Pratt knows he can’t get away without this looking weird.

“We got a call, domestic it looks like, out in the foothills. Whitehorse said we can go together.”

Oh, that’s great. It’s the first time the Sheriff is letting him and Hudson partner up. Whitehorse must be thinking of Pratt as less of a disaster now, “Yeah, totally, I have everything on me. We can go.”

Hudson’s still frowning when she asks, “That Caleb again?”

“Yeah,” Pratt parrots back without thinking.

“Okay,” she says, “let’s go.”

—

The alarm on his phone is set for 4:45, but Pratt doesn’t need it. He can’t sleep, wound too tight and ready for Jacob’s arrival. Last night, before he crawled into bed, he didn’t know if he should do anything different. If he should stretch himself before Jacob got here, or if there was something else he should know how to do.

At 5:10 Pratt hears a car pull up outside. He sits up in bed, looking out through the blinds towards the open space next to his civic. A dark gray sedan Pratt has never seen before pulls up. Not Jacob’s truck. Whoever is in the driver’s side has a cigarette between his lips, the hood on his sweatshirt up, covering his hair and obscuring his face. When the driver climbs out, Pratt is sure it’s Jacob from his frame. Too big really to be anyone else. 

Pratt gets out of bed, hurrying to open the door so Jacob can get inside, he clearly doesn’t want to be seen here. And Pratt remembers the black-haired woman in the Henbane. 

He opens the door for Jacob, who looks a little surprised but hurries inside, putting his cigarette out against the outside of Pratt’s house. Pratt almost tells him it’s okay if he smokes inside. But he’d rather have Jacob’s mouth occupied with his.

Once Jacob is inside, Pratt locks up after him. Jacob sets about closing Pratt’s blinds, dropping the thin, shitty curtains. As he moves from room to room, Jacob checks everything, before coming back to the open living area. 

“Missed you,” Jacob says, pushing down his hood before curling his arm around Pratt’s waist, dragging him close enough that they can kiss. Heat flares in Pratt’s stomach as Jacob kisses him, sure and open, tongue dipping into Pratt’s mouth. He’s dizzy for it already. 

“Jacob,” Pratt lets a ragged breath. He’s ready to drop to his knees right there in the kitchen. On his way down, Jacob tries to stop him, saying he doesn’t have to. “I want to,” Pratt promises him. He wants to make Jacob feel good.

Kneeling on the kitchen tiles, Pratt opens the front of Jacob’s jeans, carefully pulling down the zipper. He pushes down Jacob’s pants and boxers, letting them pool around Jacob’s ankles. Even though this is the third time they’ve been intimate, it feels like the first time Pratt has been this close to Jacob, always keeping him arms-reach away, even when fucking into him.

Jacob’s legs aren’t burned like his arms, but there are thin, silver scars over the tops of his thighs. A switch, Pratt thinks, maybe, hit so hard that Jacob bled.

Pratt comes up high onto his knees to reach Jacob’s cock, flush and dark, mostly hard already, but still with a little give. He tries to keep his eyes open as he closes his mouth around the cut head, hollowing his cheeks and letting saliva collect in his mouth.

Jacob groans at the first throb or pressure, swelling in Pratt’s mouth. He reaches down, tangling his fingers in Pratt’s hair. Though he could, he doesn’t pull, doesn’t force Pratt to take more. Just holds him steady as Pratt gets his bearings and starts to sink down.

Pratt’s not ambitious enough to try and take Jacob to the hilt. His mouth already feels obscenely stretched around the girth of it and while he’s sucked dick a fair bit, way more than he’s done anal, he’s not convinced he’s exceptional at it. But he wants Jacob to enjoy this. He wants to get better at it. So he takes as much of Jacob into his throat that he can tolerate, bobbing his head back when he thinks that he might choke.

Jacob pets his hair, whispering about how pretty he looks with his lips drawn tight around his cock. How wet and pink his lips are. Big brown eyes and unblemished skin. Pratt takes him into his mouth again, trying harder this time to take Jacob to the base. But he can’t do it. It’s too much, and Pratt is frustrated with himself.

“Easy, easy,” Jacob says, gently pulling Pratt’s mouth off, “come here.” He coaxes Pratt back up to standing, cradling his face in his hands and leaning into kiss him thoroughly. Pratt sighs, soaking up the affection that Jacob so easily gives when they’re alone.

“Did you not like it?” Pratt asks. Jacob’s hard, but he hasn’t come.

“I do,” Jacob said, “but I want to fuck you. You want that too, don’t you, Peaches?”

“Yeah,” Pratt admits, “Yeah I do.”

Jacob has to bend down to pull his pants back up. Pratt leads him back into the bedroom. He’s hard already in his boxers and he’s not wearing anything else. Jacob leaves his shirt on again, but takes off his shoes and removes his jeans before crawling into bed on top of Pratt.

Pratt only has his twin bed from college. After everything else he had to buy, he doesn’t have a lot of money left over this month. But by December or so, he should have enough to buy something a little bigger. Something that might fit him and Jacob more easily. Not like Jacob could stay over...but even just for sex they’re already pretty cramped.

Jacob pins him down against the mattress, spreading his thighs over top of Pratt’s hips to keep him still. Pratt’s still in his boxers, but their erections still brush up against each other as Jacob leans over to kiss him again, lips descending down his neck, leaving the lightest bites behind.

When Jacob reaches Pratt’s chest, he puts his mouth over one nipple, using his teeth and tongue to tease. Pratt arches up into the attention, moaning louder than he intended. But it should be okay, right? They’re in his house and while the mobile homes are close together there are walls and a couple of feet between plots.

Jacob switches over to the other nipple giving it as much attention as the first. Pratt tries to grind up against Jacob’s abs, finding a little friction to ease the ache. Jacob leaves his nipples sore and puffy. God, he feels overstimulated already, like every nerve is ready to burst.

“You have lube?” Jacob asks, his affections lower now, pressing kisses to Pratt’s stomach, his shoulders between Pratt’s thighs. He starts to pull off Pratt’s boxers, leaving him bare and exposed.

Pratt gestures towards his bedside drawer. There are condoms in there too, but not ones Jacob is going to be able to use. Last night, after Jacob’s call, Pratt went and bought new lube. He never used to use it to masturbate, but now he does since he’s been playing with his hole more frequently. Standing in the pharmacy, Pratt thought about buying condoms in a larger size. But, uh, how would he even explain that? So all he has are the leftovers from college that haven’t expired yet.

Jacob takes the bottle of lube, opening it up and slicking just his fingers first. Pratt parts his legs and lets him work, trying to thrust back onto Jacob’s fingers a bit as he pushes inside.

Once he’s good and open, Jacob climbs out of bed to find his jeans. Luckily, he’s brought condoms. Looks like more of those single use lube sachets too. Just in case.

“Wait, uh,” Pratt shakes his head. “Put it on, I mean..but I want to ride you,” he says with as much confidence as he can manage. He doesn’t want to be rejected, but he also doesn’t want to sound unsure. He wants this.

Jacob smiles at him, rubbing Pratt’s hip as he climbs back into bed, “Whatever you want, Peaches.” He rests his back against the headrest, legs out in front of him and cock standing up. Pratt scrambles to get on top, spreading his legs and positioning his hole over Jacob’s dick.

“Why do you call me that?” Pratt asks. He presses the head of Jacob’s cock against his stretched hole, starting to bear down on it. After reading about what to do to help get the head in, he’s hoping it won’t take as much force this time. That it might feel better from the start. And it is easier, the tip of Jacob’s cock popping past his rim. Pratt waits for a second on his knees, before starting to sink down.

Jacob hums, his hands coming to wrap around Pratt’s waist, thumbs pressed into his belly. “Didn’t know your name, that first night when I saw you. But you looked so sweet.”

Pratt flushes at that, he shouldn’t let Jacob call him sweet. Even if he likes it. “I’m a grown man,” Prat argues. He takes Jacob to the base, breathing heavily and waiting for the stretch to not burn so much.

“You are,” Jacob keeps hold of him as he starts to raise his hips. Pratt doesn’t try to come all the way up off his cock. He’s too afraid it might fall out and he’ll have to start all over. But he starts to develop a rhythm, Jacob’s strong hands helping him find a pace they’ll both enjoy. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sweet to me.”

Pratt laughs a little breathlessly. He still feels like the wind is getting knocked out of him on every stroke. But Jacob’s eyes are so bright and blue, holding him enraptured as he bounces on Jacob’s dick. Their skin slaps together and Pratt’s thighs start to tire. He’s in good shape but this is working muscles in combinations he’s not used to.

Even so, it feels much better than the last time. He keeps adjusting his position until Jacob is pressing right against his prostate, sending pleasant jolts through Pratt’s body every time he comes back down. It feels better and Pratt feels more in control, less overwhelmed. And he likes that. Likes that Jacob can give this to him.

Jacob wraps his hand around Pratt’s cock, stringing together praise. And this time, Pratt comes first, spilling onto Jacob’s shirt, tensing up around his cock and panting about how good and big and perfect Jacob feels inside of him.

Suddenly, Jacob pulls him off his lap, flipping him instead onto the mattress. Taking off the condom, Jacob keeps on stroking his dick. He tells Pratt to keep his legs spread. He finishes himself off, coming all over Pratt’s now-soft cock and balls, on the insides of his thighs. God, it’s filthy, but Pratt sort of likes it, squirming under Jacob’s hands as he starts to rub the come into his skin. Then he licks his fingers clean.

“I have a little time left,” Jacob says. “We could eat something.”

“Oh...sure,” Pratt isn’t entirely sure he can find his feet right this second. But if Jacob is hungry, he can probably scrape something together. He’s starting to get out of bed when Jacob kisses his forehead.

“Stay here, I can manage. I’ll call you when I’m done cooking.” 

Pratt is sort of shell shocked at that. So much so that he doesn’t have the opportunity to tell Jacob that there isn’t much in the way of food in his kitchen. Just like cereal and instant stuff. And sure enough, only a couple of minutes go by before Jacob reappears in the bedroom.

“Pratt, you do eat, right?”

“Yeah,” Pratt says sheepishly. “I do. I’m just not much for cooking. But I eat plenty.”

“You should eat more. You’re thin.”

Pratt honestly doesn’t know how to take that. If it’s an insult or just concern. It’s not as if he’s emaciated or anything. Just wiry and lean. His shoulders aren’t that wide, and neither is his chest. He just doesn’t put on weight like that. He’s not built for more muscle mass.

He pulls his boxers back on, following Jacob into the kitchen. They have cereal and microwave sausage, because that’s the extent of Pratt’s groceries.

“Jacob,” Pratt thinks that they’ll never be a time to ask. The answer might not matter. But god, looking at Jacob, pensive yet present across from him at the kitchen table, Pratt has to know. “There’s someone else...right? You...have a wife…I’m…”

Jacob stares back at him, eyes narrowed, “No, no wife.”

Pratt doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t want Jacob to lie to him, “I saw you, with a woman, she had black hair I...you can still come here. I just, want to know.”

“No wife,” Jacob insists, “that might have been my...sister, Faith.”

She didn’t touch Jacob like a sister would. And nothing that Pratt read about the Seeds mentioned a sister. But then again, the articles didn’t mention Jacob either. Pratt clenches his fists under the table. There’s no point in asking Jacob about his secrecy, why he can only call Pratt from payphones. Why he doesn’t even know where Jacob lives. Even if he’s not married, his brother is a preacher. Pratt is a man. And Jacob doesn’t want people knowing. Pratt’s not sure he wants people knowing about him either. But, fuck, he wants to be able to at least _call_ Jacob. Even if it’s just so he can initiate.

Jacob looks at him from across the table, “There is no one else, Pratt. Only you.”

—

When Pratt gets to work, Hudson asks him why he’s smiling. Though he can’t tell her, he also can’t force his grin back down. He’s a little sore, but it’s manageable and he got a few more hours sleep after Jacob snuck back out just after six, sweatshirt thrown on over top of his come stained shirt and his hood pulled up.

Hudson tries to pry it out of him again but Pratt knows he can’t budge on it. Brushing off her curiously, he toils away on paperwork left over from yesterday. Little by little, he sinks back into the normal hum of work. When he runs out of paperwork, he starts playing on his phone. Hudson’s shift ends and after that there’s no one left to bother him.

—

Jacob visits him again the next week, slipping into Pratt’s mobile home at two thirty-seven in the morning. Pratt has been in bed since eight, his sleep schedule well and truly fucked. He answers the door for Jacob, still groggy and bleary-eyed. But once Jacob captures Pratt’s mouth in his, he can’t help but sink into that heat. The firm press of Jacob’s body against his as they stumble back into the bedroom.

Jacob lays him out, nestling between his legs, fucking in slow and long, kissing his neck and shoulders until Pratt is a squirming wreck. Shuddering under Jacob’s hands, Pratt can’t grasp the coherence to ask for what he wants. What he knows he cannot have. _Stay, Jacob, stay._ so instead he claws at Jacob’s shoulders, gray cotton underneath his nails as he tries to meet Jacob’s thrusts.

“You bought eggs,” Jacob says, afterwards, when they’re in the kitchen. But it’s not time for breakfast.

Pratt admits, “I did,” as if Jacob can’t see the carton in the refrigerator himself.

“Good.”

Pratt sits at the kitchen table and watches Jacob cook for him, even though he’s not in the least bit hungry. The eggs, and the bacon Pratt bought too. A silly whim, he didn’t really expect for Jacob to call him again so soon. Pratt has been microwaving the bacon, just because it’s easier than getting the pan dirty, but Jacob has it sizzling on the stove.

“You’re from Georgia, right?” Pratt blurts out, while Jacob’s back is turned to him. Jacob doesn’t know how much Pratt actually knows. But Pratt wants to hear it from Jacob. Wants to know him. Wants to feel close. He’s given up on the idea that all they’re doing is fucking, because Jacob says there’s no one else but Pratt. And, fucking hell, Jacob is in his kitchen cooking breakfast at three am, his come still stuck to the insides of Pratt’s thighs.

“Mm, yeah, guess you knew that,” Jacob plates their food. He wouldn’t let Pratt help. Though he’ll leave the dirty dishes behind.

“You don’t have much of an accent,” Pratt points out, “would’ve expected you to have one.”

Jacob sits across from him, shoveling eggs onto his fork, “Lost it in the army. Get shit about it one too many times, you teach yourself to talk different.”

“Oh,” Pratt concedes, “that makes sense.”

Grinning around his forkful of breakfast, Jacob asks, “Why? Southern charm get you hot and bothered, Peaches?”

“Maybe a little,” Pratt teases back, “and you’ve been holding out on me.”

Jacob feigns being wounded, pressing his hand seriously over his heart, “I fed you and everything. Don’t know how much more hospitable I can be.”

“Could do my laundry too.”

They finish up eating and Jacob has to go. He kisses Pratt goodbye while the door is still closed. He smells like bacon grease and Pratt’s sheets. He tastes like a promise.


	5. Chapter 5

After that, Jacob doesn’t call, doesn’t visit. Two weeks pass, then three. All of a sudden it’s October. Halloween shows up, which, apparently, is a shitshow for the Sheriff's Department every year. It wasn’t so long ago that Caleb and Pratt were the asshole kids causing havoc across the county with whipped cream and toilet paper and every firework they could get their grubby hands on. The more dangerous the better. But experiencing that from the other side is a goddamn nightmare.

Whitehorse won’t let Pratt and Hudson go together in the cruiser, though increasingly, he knows they prefer working with each other. Pratt ends up with Davies, again, which means he’s going to be treated like a fucking toddler the whole night. They take off in pairs, Pratt with Davies, Hudson with Gilmore, and Froelich in reserve back at the station with Whitehorse. All of them are getting overtime for tonight, but it also means thinner staffing for the rest of the week.

Hudson gives him a little salute before getting into the driver’s side of the cruiser. How fucking nice for her that Froelich lets her drive. Pratt is stuck in the passenger seat because Davies can’t unclench for ten minutes.

They get a couple of easy calls at first, vandalism, with the kids long gone by the time they show up. But Davies makes him go through the paces, taking statements from property owners and photographs of the damage. Then it’s on to the next petty, sugar fueled crime.

It’s about eight when they get the dispatch, Nancy telling them to book it to the Hollyhock, sounds like it might be a bar fight already in progress, but she’s not certain. The call in was vague then got cut off. Pratt wonders how much time they’ll have before the same breaks out at the Spread Eagle.

Davies speeds the whole way through, turns the lights on but not the siren. No reason to disturb the livestock any more than they’re already subjected to with the holiday. As they drive up to the saloon, it becomes obvious they weren’t called in for a bar fight. At least, not one that has started yet.

There’s a small crowd gathered in the parking lot, making it difficult for Davies to pull in and find a spot for the cruiser. A couple dozen people stand in a crowded horseshoe around a central figure, standing up on a wooden box as a sort of make-shift pulpit.

Joseph Seed, Pratt realizes right away, though he’s never seen the man’s face. His general features mimic those of both his brothers, though all three of them have different coloring. Joseph’s the middle Seed, but with his receding hairline and the deep creases around his eyes, Pratt thinks he looks older than Jacob. Though the sun is long gone, he wears sulfur colored glasses, his light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. For some goddamn reason he’s not wearing a shirt and like John, he’s heavily tattooed. Though his don’t quite reach all the way down his arms. There are swallows on his shoulders and a crown on his chest. Meanicingly, it looks like the word GREED is _carved_ into his arm instead of inked. The lines puffy and red like it’s been done recently, looks like it could tear open when Joseph raises his arms above his head.

Half of the crowd looks enraptured by his words, the other half, annoyed. Pratt and Davies get out of the cruiser to assess what’s going on, hopefully they can diffuse any sticky situations before they happen. Joseph doesn’t have a permit, and on those grounds alone, they can remove him. But the general policy in the county is to try and handle non-violent situations smoothly, keep arrests down when you can, issue citations and follow up.

Joseph says something about a Collapse, it’s coming. And he is to be their salvation. Can’t they all feel this world festering, dying all around them? Choked with sin and arrogance. This society cannot hold.

Pratt snickers under his breath, a kind of strange satisfaction in how ridiculous Joseph sounds. Yeah, things might not be great, there is always suffering, always war, always greed. None of that changes. But Pratt remembers the easy way that Jacob smiled at him across the table not so long ago. And despite his melancholy that Jacob hasn’t called in weeks, he thinks that yeah, he’s still happy that Jacob is his. 

If Joseph’s own brother can’t believe him, how does he expect to find converts among the locals?

Stepping in next to Nick Rye, Pratt asks the pilot how long Joseph has been at it? Pratt knows Nick a little. He was a few years ahead of Pratt and Caleb in school. Didn’t go to college, no need when he already was learning all he needed to know about the business from his dad.

Nick crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back s little on his heels, “About thirty minutes. Fuck. I just want to go back to playing pool. Why are we listening to this horseshit?” 

Pratt nods in solidarity, telling Nick he’s got to go back up Davies, who is making his way through the gawkers. Standing up straighter, Pratt follows after him. He already knows Davies won’t let him get a word in edgewise, but he’ll be expecting Pratt to have his back if things go south.

“Alright, alright,” Davies starts, “I think you’ve done about enough. Let’s get down, Mr. Seed.” Davies gestures for Joseph to climb down off his box.

Joseph turns his head slowly, looking down at Davies. His eyes flicker over to Pratt standing behind his senior deputy and there’s the smallest twitch in Joseph’s face. Almost as is he recognizes him. But they’ve never seen each other before. God, that look makes Pratt feel really fucking strange. Almost like Joseph can see inside of him. See what he and Jacob have done, but that’s impossible. Jacob wouldn’t have told him. Just as quickly, Joseph goes back to addressing Davies. 

“Do you really think it’s your place to interfere here?” Joseph gestures to the crowd. “Men are free to choose to which flock they belong.”

“Oh they are,” Davies says, “but just as American to respect the rights of property owners. And the ones here want you out. Take your flock to land that you own, friend. And consider the matter solved.”

Joseph stares at him, unmoving for a moment. The crowd around them is getting tense, and odd chill in the air. Almost like those who had been taking Joseph’s words to heart are waking up from a trance. No one seems to be in a hurry to defend Joseph now. They’re more dazed than anything, quietly breaking into hushed conversations with the other people around them, playing off that they were ever enraptured by his voice.

Out of the corner of his eye Pratt watches someone, or something move. He’s careful not to jerk his head too suddenly, but turns his head just enough to see what it is. 

Jacob, standing over by his truck, parked in the furthest corner of the lot, away from his brother and the crowd. He’s half-obscured by the sedans and compacts parked closer to the center of the lot, but tall enough that he can easily see over them and watch his brother.

Pratt catches his eyes, unable to look away. Unable to say anything. They stand in silence as Davies repeats that Joseph has got to go. No, he’s not under arrest, the Hollyhock owners don’t want that. They just want to run their business. 

Jacob looks away, turning towards the back of his truck and opening up the tailgate. Pratt watches as a big, furry dog follows him around, then jumps up into the truck bed. The thing is huge, mostly white, its eyes sharp. Looks more wolf than dog, as far as Pratt is concerned. Jacob looks at him one last time before getting into the driver’s seat. Still not a word. Pratt looks away. 

Davies has convinced Joseph to leave. Joseph and three other people, dressed in cream and white, follow him back to Jacob’s truck.

Pratt helps Davies break up the crowd, they’ve got to move for Jacob’s truck to pull out and the preacher to leave. No one seems particularly concerned about Joseph being forced out, though a few eyes linger as Jacob’s truck pulls out of the lot, Joseph in the cab with his brother and the three others in the back with the dog.

—

Pratt’s phone buzzes on the nightstand, it’s six-eighteen, and he’s just gotten home from graveyard. 

He wants nothing more than to collapse, sore and achy from his shift. Sharky got fucking wasted, again, and led him on a goose chase through the wooded hills outside his family’s cabin. There was this incident, when Pratt was a kid, where Sharky set fire to the Kendall field back behind the bank of houses where Pratt grew up. The flames flickering closer and closer to the homes. He remembers the Kendalls screaming bloody murder. Sharky was passed out drunk inside the flames. Pratt’s mom told him to stay on the other side of the street, just in case the fires came too close. 

Anyone else, Pratt might have just let the drunkard run. But he couldn’t take that risk with Sharky.

Checking his phone, it’s from an unknown number. Jacob. It’s always Jacob. And despite his exhaustion, Pratt picks up. It’s been six weeks since Jacob last came over. While he might have made a promise to himself to be more active when they fuck, he’s not going to turn Jacob down now. Even if all he can really do right this second is just lie there and take it.

“Hello?” 

“Hey there, Peaches. When’s your next day off?”

“Uh,” the question takes Pratt by surprise. Jacob has never been with him for more than an hour, secreted in when everyone else is asleep. Gone before anyone even knows he’s had a visitor. “Let me check,” he has to pull the phone away from his ear to go to the home screen, then his calendar to check. “November 5th, Wednesday.”

“Don’t plan anything, yeah? I want you to meet me, up by the Hawkeye tunnel, around six in the morning. You can do that for me, yeah?”

Getting up to the tunnel will take Pratt over an hour, meaning he’ll have to leave by four-thirty. He gets off shift at eight pm on the fourth….but he tells Jacob yes, he can be there.

“Good,” Jacob exhales loudly, as if he was holding his breath, “and you can save this number. I won’t be able to pick up. But you can leave a message...if you need me.”

Pratt’s heart speeds up at that, something tangible, something real. Even if it’s just ten digits stored in his phone. He can barely say “goodbye,” when Jacob says he has to go. They’ll see each other in a couple of days. 

After that, Pratt can’t sleep, clutching his phone tight to his chest as his heart pounds against his ribs. So hard and fast he feels like he’s dying. He looks at the number, _Jacob’s_ number again. It’s probably not smart to save it under Jacob’s name, though he wants to. In the end, he calls the contact “Caleb - New” and affixes a picture from last winter of his friend, bundled up in a puffy coat and a hat that he’s pulled down almost to his nose. 

\--

On Tuesday, Hudson says he’s acting weird again, staring him down from across the station after Pratt tells her that he’s fine. She won’t believe it. Drawing out her cup of coffee longer than she normally does, she watches Pratt’s every move until Whitehorse sends her out. Pratt gets sent out with Froelich not long after on a call from the Jessop place. Whitehorse’s face is stern, says they should check up on their girl. She called in herself, said her parents weren’t home. Gone for days. She sounded disoriented, afraid. They shouldn’t hesitate calling the EMTs, if something is amiss.

The EMTs in Hope County have infinitely more to do than the deputies. Pratt figures that’s normal for rural towns. Meth’s a bitch. But unless there’s an assault or theft involved, all they do as deputies is fill out the paperwork, when the junkie gets processed at the nearest hospital and transferred back over to county jail. 

Froelich at least lets Pratt drive, so that’s a point he’s got over Davies. He pops his seat back all the way and doesn’t even watch how Pratt is driving as they head deep into the Henbane. The rapid temperature fluctuations this fall has cast this eerie sort of fog over the water, creeping up to the shore. Pratt doesn’t like it, but it’s just nature being weird. He should be used to shit like that.

The Jessop Conservatory is one of the more palatial properties in the county, beautifully constructed greenhouses surrounding the central manor. Nothing else in the region is built quite like it. Kind of like this strange building from a gothic age. Beautiful, in its own way.

Pratt doesn’t know the daughter, Rachel, very well. She was a couple of years behind him and Caleb in school. Pretty, if he remembers correctly, but strange. He doesn’t know, maybe she got picked on because her family was rich. Kids will pick on anything, given enough time and not enough to do.

Froelich takes the lead heading up to the porch. He knocks firmly on the door and waits. Then tries the bell. From the call, they’re within protocol to break down the door if there’s no response. Whitehorse suspects something is wrong with the girl.

“One more try,” Froelich says, pressing the buzzer again.

This time, Pratt hears footsteps rushing towards the door. The door swings open, Rachel’s pale, thin fingers curling around the edge, “It’s nothing,” she’s shaking, “I’m fine.”

She’s so clearly not fine that Pratt wants to drag her through the doorway. But they probably shouldn’t touch her if she’s not in immediate danger.

“Come on, Rachel, you called us,” Pratt tries to get her out. Even if she’s fine, he’ll feel a hell of a lot better if he can properly confirm it with his own eyes.

“I made a mistake,” she says, “I thought someone….it’s fine. It was nothing. I just got scared. I’m sorry.”

Froelich frowns. There might be someone in the house. But they can’t just go in if Rachel refuses. Pratt shifts unsteadily on his feet. Something is wrong here. He’s pretty sure Rachel is fucked up, on what, he’s not sure. That might give them enough to get inside the house.

“What did you take, Rachel?” Pratt asks, maybe she’ll just spill the beans.

“Go away,” she hisses, slamming the door in both their faces.

Pratt wants to get inside, and he thinks they might have probable cause now. Rachel is acting erratic. Froelich must have noticed she’s high too. But he tells Pratt to move it, they’re not welcome here. Taking his radio from his waist, he calls into the office, telling Whitehorse it was a false alarm.

It doesn’t sit well with Pratt, but he’s got no authority here.

—

Pratt showers after work, then tries to get some sleep. But he already knows that he’s not going to be able to rest. He lays in bed, plays candy crush on his phone, runs out of lives, switches to a different version, out again, goes back to play the lives he’s earned. He checks his Facebook, that he hasn’t opened in months. He didn’t want to see pictures of Caleb in his new life, the one without him. No one uses it anymore anyway. But he goes to Caleb’s wall, scrolls through pictures. Fuck. He has like, a two hundred more friends compared to when they graduated. That’s not even an exaggeration.

He stops on a particular photo, Caleb dressed in a shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’s smiling brightly into the camera, his arm thrown over the shoulder of a pretty girl with dark, rich skin and a wide nose. One of her hands is pressed to Caleb’s chest. From the tag, Pratt figures out her name is Chastity. They look good together.

At some point he just passes out.

His alarm goes off at four-fifteen and he gets out of bed to dress. Jacob didn’t tell him anything about what they’re doing, but there’s a limited number of options at six in the morning and when you can’t be seen together. Still, Pratt wants to look good, so he pulls on his best-fitting skinny jeans and a newer black and green flannel shirt, one that isn’t so worn at the cuffs and the buttons. After messing with his hair, trying it part-way up, all the way down, tucked behind his ears, over his ears, he goes with the little tiny ponytail he can manage by pulling the sides all the way back. He puts his sneakers on and heads out to the civic.

The weather is cold enough now he has to be careful about black ice, especially as the elevation rises on his way up to the tunnel. He still can’t figure out why Jacob would want to go up there. But for all Pratt knows, Jacob lives up in the mountains. He knows John’s address is the old Garrison ranch, one of only two residential properties that puts the Jessops’ to shame, but that doesn’t mean Jacob lives there too. People have been talking about John making offers on the Holmes’ property. Aggressive ones.

Pratt isn’t entirely sure where he’s supposed to meet Jacob, but as he enters the tunnel, he sees the gray sedan that Jacob has driven to his house before parked near the overlook. He pulls into the vacant spot next to him, finding the car empty. Shoving his hands into his front pockets, Pratt heads out to the overlook. He should have worn a heavier coat. Lived his whole life in Hope County, still can’t fucking dress right for the weather.

Jacob’s there, leaning over the railing, watching the Valley below, still twinkling in the early morning hours. It’s late enough in the season that the sun won’t be up for awhile yet. Dressed in his jacket and jeans, hunting knife strapped to his leg, Jacob always seems to look the same, and always leaves Pratt just as breathless.

As Pratt gets close, Jacob turns his gaze away from the horizon. He looks Pratt up and down and sighs, “I should have told you to wear better shoes.”

Pratt looks down at his worn sneakers, red with white laces, not knowing what’s wrong with them, “I’ve got boots in my trunk.”

“Put them on,” Jacob says, standing rigid and waiting for Pratt to go fetch them.

He sits on the lip of his trunk to putt on his hiking boots, Jacob waiting for him at the overlook. But just as he’s finishing up his laces, Jacob joins him, tells him to get into his car.

The sedan smells like stale cigarettes. There’s a plastic cup in the center console, three butts inside. Jacob doesn’t drive them far, just to the tiny, four space lot at the head of the trail that leads further up the mountain to the base jump up above. They could have walked the distance. But Pratt realizes that Jacob probably doesn’t want their cars sitting next to each other. Before too long other people will be driving through the tunnel.

Jacob reaches across him to pop open the glove compartment. He grabs his pack of cigarettes and sticks it into his coat pocket. Gesturing for Pratt to get out of the car, he heads around back to the trunk to get his bag. He swings the pack over one shoulder and starts heading up the trail.

Pratt sincerely has no idea what’s going on, but he’s well past the point of thinking Jacob is going to murder him in the woods. Giving out his phone number isn’t exactly how you lead up to committing a felony. Jacob’s stride is longer than his, but it’s not too difficult keeping up. Pratt is used to running at a lower elevation, but their pace isn’t too arduous. Steady, but not too fast. The trail, while steep, is well-worn, easy to find his footing.

They hike for twenty minutes, putting a good bit of distance between themselves and the road. That’s when Jacob grabs him by the arm, dragging him close so they’re chest to chest. Jacob wraps his arm around Pratt’s waist, lowering his mouth to kiss him soundly. And Pratt feels so fucking stupid for this man.

Jacob pulls back, grinning, saying they’ve still got a ways to go.

“Where are we going?” Pratt asks as they resume their hike.

“About another mile, there’s a clearing. We’ll be alone.”

Pratt almost protests, they could have been alone in his house. But then he realizes they’ve been together almost an hour already. Jacob has found _time_ for _him_ and wants to spend it together doing something other than fucking. Pratt still has no idea what that activity is. But he’s probably lucky to get anything out of Jacob.

The higher they climb the more the trees thin out, Jacob leading him off the path and through the less-dense foliage. They cross a stream, only just wide enough that Pratt only has to put his foot down in the center of it once, before he steps to the other side. In front of him, the trees part, giving way to a mountain meadow. All the flowers are already dead from the cold, but it’s still beautiful.

He’s seen places like this before. Of course he has. Fuck, he grew up in the county, after all. But he’s never been to this moment here, with Jacob and the great blue sky coming into collision.

“It’s beautiful,” Pratt breathes, pulling cold air into his lungs.

“Not just for show,” Jacob grunts, dropping the pack down and pulling open the zipper. He takes out a metal water bottle, handing it to Pratt. “How much hand-to-hand training do you have?”

“I wrestled in high school,” Pratt’s not sure that counts. He was never very good at it, but it gave him something to do after school when the gym teacher suddenly became very convinced Caleb could play basketball because of his height. That worked out about as terribly as every other time some adult got the bright idea that Caleb was somehow special.

Jacob smirks at him, like he’s just said the dumbest fucking shit, “Then take me down.”

No fucking way. Number one, Pratt was never very good. Yeah, he won some of his matches, but only because the other kid was abysmal. Two, Jacob has four inches and about forty pounds on him. And while Pratt hasn’t technically seen Jacob shirtless, he knows from getting tossed around it’s basically all muscle.

“I can’t,” Pratt admits. Better that than embarrass himself, “No way I’m that strong.”

The smile fades from Jacob’s face, “But you need to be. Come on. We’ll start with your technique, work from there.”

Pratt doesn’t see the point of this. Yeah, it might come in handy for his job. But he also carries a pistol and a taser to give him a little boost. Also, most men don’t come as big as Jacob.

But Jacob insists, “What’s your first instinct, if you want to take me to ground?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Pratt frowns, “I need to wrap your legs, use your own weight against you.”

“Good,” Jacob leads him, “good. So, show me.”

He already knows he can’t do it, but Pratt gets down low, so when he steps forward, his shoulder slams into Jacob’s hip. He does his best to try and wrap his arms around Jacob’s legs and pull them out from under him, but Jacob just widens his stance and Pratt can’t reach.

Grabbing him by the collar of his flannel, Jacob wrenches him off, throwing him to the ground. Pratt huffs sitting up in the grass, “You know this isn’t fair, right? You’re much bigger than I am.”

“It doesn’t matter, there are predators bigger than me.”

Pratt frowns, but catches his opening, springing at Jacob’s ankles while he’s distracted with scolding him. But Pratt doesn’t really know how to bring Jacob down without leverage, so he’s left just stupidly holding onto Jacob’s calves.

“Get to your feet,” Jacob says, “we’ll do it again.”

They repeat, over and over again. Pratt aims for Jacob’s hips, tries to wrap him, fails. On his tenth attempt, Jacob doesn’t even let him get as far as shoving in his shoulder. Instead, when Pratt comes at him, he gets down low himself, grabbing Pratt’s shoulder in one hand and wrapping around his torso with the other. He slams Pratt into the dirt, knocking the fucking wind out of him.

“Again,” Jacob repeats, his sweaty body pressing down harshly onto Pratt’s. Their lips just millimeters apart. “You’re getting better.”

Pratt doesn’t feel like he’s learning anything. Just growing more and more exhausted. Frustrated that Jacob is making him do this. Even if there is something undeniably hot about trying to wrestle Jacob to the ground. Would be hotter if Pratt had any chance at all to succeed. But they get to their feet once more. Pratt hesitates, waiting, waiting. Jacob just stands there and watches, his feet planted shoulder width apart. Pratt has to try something different. This is insanity.

Just because he doesn’t have the upper body strength or build that Jacob has, doesn’t mean he’s weak. This is about problem solving, not physical prowess. Jacob’s stance is too wide for Pratt to get his arms around the backs of his knees. He needs to split the difference, go in for somewhere narrower.

Pratt hits him again, driving his shoulder into Jacob’s gut. This time, he wraps higher, around Jacob’s hips. It means that he’s having to use his arms more, Jacob’s weight less, but at least he can get his arms wrapped around. He lifts up Jacob by his ass, and throws him to the ground. When he tries to pounce on top of Jacob to keep him pinned, Jacob just rolls away. Pratt still comes up empty handed, but he’s getting closer.

Jacob easily sweeps Pratt’s leg with a single kick, and Pratt goes tumbling into the grass. He shouts out, “Fuck!” as Jacob climbs on top of him and pins him down.

“Better,” Jacob praises, leaning over to kiss him.

They stay like that in the grass, both of them rolling onto their sides. Jacob runs his hand down Pratt’s flank, his touch warm, even through Pratt’s flannel shirt. They kiss and kiss until Pratt’s hard and aching. Wanting so badly to be touched. He grinds against Jacob’s thigh, just a little, to show his interest, and Jacob puts him on his back. Unzipping his jeans and sucking off Pratt under the open expanse of sky. Pratt wants to return the favor and they switch places, Jacob’s hair unnaturally bright against the green of the mountain grass. Pratt’s not as skilled as Jacob, it takes longer, Jacob doesn’t fit in Pratt’s mouth as easily, but when Jacob comes down his throat he’s just as excited as when he managed to take Jacob to the ground, no matter how short-lived his victory.

Jacob packed food for them, a mess of beans and beef and rice. It looks terrible, but tastes pretty good cold. They sit in the grass, watching the county move below them. Pratt doesn’t want to think about how they’re getting back down. It’s the middle of the day now, and Jacob will probably want them to descend separately. He wouldn’t want to run the risk of being caught.

But after lunch he tells Pratt to come, they walk back down the same route they took up. No one bothers them. Maybe it’s just that awkward segment of Autumn where the fair-weather hikers have called it for the year and the thrill-seekers don’t yet have icy passes to grab their attention. Jacob tells him to wait when they’re within fifty meters of the parking lot, going out ahead to scout. He returns quickly, tells Pratt to come, there’s no one around.

They don’t kiss again in the tunnel, when Pratt gets back into his car. But it doesn’t matter. He’s more convinced than ever that Jacob is his. The conditions and the secrecy don’t matter. He’ll keep their secrets safe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, remember that there is a breathplay tag on this. This chapter has like, straight up choking in a consensual sexual situation.

The forest stretches out before him. A tangled, dark maze of branches, fallen logs, twisted vines, choking the path ahead. The red moon overhead bleeds through the dense canopy. The air smells of salt and copper. When he turns around, he finds the same woven mess of vegetation blocking him from going backwards, to where he can hear the passing cars on the road.

Pratt runs.

Barefoot and breathing heavily, sticks and stones cut into the flesh of his feet, leaving a dark trail of blood in his wake. Every inhale burns. Every exhale feels like vinegar in his lungs, sour and sharp. Drowning. Wolves.

He’s being chased.

Can’t stop. Can’t stop. The moonlight dyes his skin crimson, bright. The hair on his arms impossibly black in contrast. He knows he can outrun the predators coming up from behind. Smarter. He’s smarter. As he runs, Pratt surveys the trees, looking for a branch low enough that he can grab, strong enough to support his weight. He just has to stay out ahead of the pack long enough to find his route to safety. 

There’s breath, hot at his heels. Fangs snatching at his exposed skin.

Looking down at himself, he realizes he’s dressed in white. A lace dress that doesn’t quite reach his knees, sleeves coming all the way to his wrists. His bloody feet mix with the dirt, churning into mud.

Up ahead, he sees what he needs, the long, thick branch just low enough that if he jumps he can grab on. Launching himself forward, Pratt wraps his arms around the branch, throwing his leg up so that he can straddle the tree limb. The dress rips to accommodate his position. Safe. He’s safe for now. 

Three of the wolves, red crosses painted on their foreheads, huge and white, emerge from the brush. They circle below him, jaws snapping, mouths salivating. But they cannot reach him. They’ll grow tired and move on to different prey when they realize Pratt is out of reach. He just has to wait them out.

Somewhere in the distance, shouting. A name that isn’t his. An explosion. The ground shakes; the wolves run. Pratt can’t see the sky through the canopy anymore. The moon goes dark.

His phone alarm starts buzzing.

—

Hudson throws up her hands in triumph when their shift is over, their schedules lining up for the first time in forever.

Even though they’re in the office, Pratt’s hands are frozen through, and it’s only late November. The Valley and the Henbane don’t get much in terms of snow cover, but he and Davies were up in the Whitetails earlier. Fatal car crash with three tourists dead. Handling the aftermath ate up most of their shift. The Sheriff came with them, and the EMTs were there. Pratt had to help dig out one of the bodies from the snow and wreckage, with one of the EMTs. It’s the first time he’s touched a dead human body. Strange, yeah. But he doesn’t feel that weird about it. He didn’t know the person, they had been dead for hours by the time the Sheriff's office and the EMTs even made it up to the isolated crash site. The body was just….cold.

“We’re going drinking,” Hudson exclaims, already bundled up in her heather gray peacoat. Her knit maroon cap is pulled down snugly over her ears.

Pratt doesn’t know if this is about the corpse. He thinks it might be, but trying to explain that he’s fine will just make Hudson worry more. She’s been a deputy for two years already, almost three, so she’s been through the paces. Maybe this is just what she’s supposed to do for the rookie. Get him to open up about what he’s feeling. Make sure none of his screws are loose.

Pratt grabs his coat from the back of his chair, saying he’ll meet her there. But then she suggests that she follows him home to Silverlake in her car, then she can drive them both to the Spread Eagle, since she lives basically next door. This way Pratt doesn’t have to watch what he drinks too carefully.

“How am I supposed to get home then?”

She just shrugs, “Stay over, I have a couch.”

Technically, he could also walk to his mom’s and sleep in his old room. Realizing Joey isn’t about to take no for an answer, Pratt concedes. When they arrive at his mobile, they both park and he tells her to come inside. He wants to change. It’s not like he can get properly wasted in his deputy’s uniform. 

There’s no time to shower, but Pratt changes into a shirt, an olive-colored sweater, and some jeans. The pants are already in need of washing, but he doesn’t have anything cleaner that’s appropriate. His hair gets stuck under the collar of his sweater. He need to get it cut.

On the drive back in Hudson’s Jeep, she plays her music loud and they both shout over the stereo. She says she’ll ask about work later, once Pratt has a few drinks in him.

“Isn’t that the same as already asking?” he shouts.

“I guess, but, I’m just trying to help!”

Pratt appreciates the effort. He really does. But now he knows this is about the corpse. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s fine.

When they reach Fall’s End, Hudson tells him to head inside the bar and start drinking. She’ll only be gone a few minutes to go get changed. Pratt doesn’t bother ordering anything for her, just tells Mary May that he’ll take a High Life. Instead, she puts down two.

Hudson storms back in, her hair tied up high on top of her head, in an oversized ivory sweater that absolutely swallows her up, and these impractical suede boots with a heel that come up to her knees. Pratt wonders how often she even gets to wear them in Hope County.

She takes the second High Life without asking, pounding it down faster than Pratt can finish his. Without hesitation, she orders a second round and tells Pratt to hurry the fuck up.

“We’re real pillars of the community, aren’t we, Deputy Hudson,” he finally finishes his first drink, setting the bottle back on the bar.

Hudson slams her open palm on the bar, rattling both their empty bottles, “Unless you’re planning on starting a knife fight with me in the next ten minutes, I think we’re in the clear.” That’d put them ahead of most of the local dumbasses at least.

“Okay,” Pratt teases, “I’ll wait twelve.”

The bar starts to fill up as the hour passes. They move onto their third beer, then their fourth. Hudson tells a bunch of stories from when she was enlisted. Most of her tales sound like fabrications, or at least embellishments. Definitely the one about the llamas and the keg.

They’re good and sloshed by the time Hudson wants to play darts. And at first Pratt thinks that might be a dangerous combination. But they live in fucking Montana after all. There are drunks out there right now with rifles. And they are so, so not their responsibility. At least, not until they’re both back on shift tomorrow.

Hudson absolutely slaughters him at darts, then says next time they’ll have to go out to the shooting range so she can beat him there too. They could just go hunting, but she admits that she hates the boredom that comes with actually having to find things to shoot. Plus the hassle of getting permits. Clay pigeons are just as satisfying for an eighth of the effort.

After the second round of darts and their fifth of thin beer, she finally brings it up, “But seriously, the body got you freaked?”

“No, I think I’m fine,” Pratt says. He’s starting to feel groggy, he’s been awake too long, the Eagle is pretty loud, and he’s tired of getting his ass handed to him.

“Whitehorse said you didn’t even react,” she scrunches up her nose. “You handle a corpse before?”

Pratt shakes his head, “No, but it was...so cold, and so dead already. I don’t know. It was hard to ever see it as alive.” He knows the body was a woman, Heather Day, from Houston, 37 years old. But it’s hard to think of her as a person. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he was supposed to flinch, to get fucked up about it. Taking the whole thing in stride is weird. “Maybe it would be different, if I’d seen it happen, or if the body was warm.”

Hudson nods grabbing the darts from the board.

The bell above the front door rings as someone else comes in, or goes out. It’s been ringing all night, hardly worth noticing. Pratt is facing away from the door and can’t see who it is. But he sees Hudson’s eyes go wide.

“Hey, let's get out of here,” she grabs Pratt by the arm. He manages to turn his head just enough to see that John Seed has just arrived.

They head out the back door, their beers still in hand. Hudson jumps the fence and Pratt follows after, heading towards the center of the field just on the outskirts of the town. The air is cool and the sky clear. The stars so fucking bright. Hudson’s thin heels sink into the dirt and she stumbles, using Pratt for balance. Or maybe she’s just drunk.

Hudson finally lets go of his arm, breathing deep and exhaling loudly. She reaches into her back pocket to pull out her vape, the little blue light on the front blinking as she turns it on. “Sometimes...I think we live in the most beautiful place in the whole world.” The mountains in the distance frame her face as much as her hair that’s gotten loose. She takes a long drag, then blows out a cloud of vapor.

“Maybe,” Pratt tips his face up, looking at the sky above, “haven’t seen that many other places.”

“Caleb’s in New York, right?” she asks, “How is he?”

“He-“ Pratt almost fucks up and says he doesn’t know. But Hudson thinks that Caleb has called him a handful of times. “He’s great, really great,” at least that doesn’t feel like lying.

Hudson gives him one of those pensive looks, “You know you can talk to me, right? About _anything_ , I won’t judge you.” She taps the vape against her bottom lip.

It’s not that Pratt thinks she’ll mock him. It’s that no one can know about Jacob.

“Yeah,” Pratt finishes off his beer, “I know, Joey.” He shivers in the cold.

They wait about ten minutes before heading back towards town. Pratt doesn’t dare ask her about John Seed, in case he lets something slip. Bypassing the bar, they head back to the Fairgrave’s coach house, Joey unlocking the door and letting Pratt in first.

Pratt has never been inside Joey’s apartment before. And it really is sized more like an apartment, even if it’s technically a house. Just one floor, with an open living and kitchen area, then a single bed and bath tucked into the back. There aren’t very many windows and she’s got bookcases and boxes lining every wall. Not enough space for all her shit. The sink is full of dishes and there’s a bowl of apples on the counter, smelling overripe.

She brings him a blanket from the bedroom and points him towards the bathroom. Both of them are dead on their feet already. Pratt doesn’t know how he’s getting home in the morning, but that’s a problem for another time.

—

Pratt tries calling Jacob, one evening at the end of November, just to see if the number works. Straight to voicemail, no name, just a digitized woman’s voice, reading the number back. Pratt doesn’t dare leave his name, but after the tone responds, “hey, call me back,” before hanging up.

Otherwise, he goes about his evening, eating half a frozen pizza, sticking the leftovers in Tupperware for tomorrow. Watches sports highlights, because he never seems to have enough time to patience to watch full games anymore.

His phone vibrates somewhere under his ass and Pratt fishes around in the cushions to find it, thinking it might be Jacob. It’s his mom, instead, and he’s forced to pick up, because if he doesn’t he’ll never hear the end of it when he next talks to her. She asks him when he’s coming over next, as if he wasn’t just there four days ago. Deflecting, he says he’s not sure. Yes, he has his work schedule. Just sometimes he’s so tired.

“You should take better care of yourself, I’m worried,” the truth is, it doesn’t matter what sort of condition he’s in, she’d still be worried.

“I’ll try to come on Sunday,” he says, already trying to formulate the excuse he’ll feed her on Saturday afternoon when he calls to say he can’t come over. He’ll find the time, he will. But...he’s curious if Jacob will actually call him back or not.

Jacob doesn’t call him until the odd end of the morning. Pratt thinks maybe his phone says 3:10 but he’s not sure, he’s still half asleep, vision is still kind of blurry, when he picks up.

“Peaches, is something wrong?”

Pratt’s stomach drops, nothing is wrong. He just wanted to talk to Jacob. And when Jacob gave him this number, he didn’t say it was for emergencies only. Just that he won’t pick up right away. That led Pratt to believe it was okay to call….sometimes.

“I just missed your voice,” Pratt says, cursing himself for being so open and raw.

“Sunday morning,” Jacob says, “at three.”

“Okay,” he has work until midnight. He just won’t go to sleep. He’ll call is mom and cancel for Sunday, then just crash after Jacob leaves.

—

Pratt’s mom is, predictably, upset. She says she feels him drifting away from her, further than he was in Bozeman. He tries to tell her it’s just part of growing up. She needs to let him be an adult now. He can make his own decisions and he’s doing fine. She doesn’t have to worry so much. Before can hang up, she makes him promise to come on Tuesday instead, after his shift ends. They can have dinner together, at least.

It’s two hours and forty-seven minutes before Jacob is set to arrive when Pratt gets home from work. He tosses his keys on the table by the door and heads straight to the shower. Afterwards, Pratt doesn’t really bother getting dressed again, just pulling on a pair of boxers and a sleeveless shirt with a tiny hole above his navel and to the left. He watches television for an hour, shitty sitcom reruns. His house is too cold to not put something else on, so he throws on one of his hoodies and goes back to watching tv.

At some point he must doze off, despite his intentions to stay up. There’s a sharp knock at the door, that must be Jacob, and he scrambles off the couch to let him in.

Jacob is dressed in his hooded sweatshirt, the one that hides his face. He never wears his army jacket to the park, too conspicuous, and he can’t cover up his distinctive hair. He grins at Pratt, grabbing him around the waist and hiking him up off the floor once the door is closed. Pratt hurries to wrap his legs around Jacob’s waist, Jacob’s hands looping under his thighs, as he’s carried back towards the couch.

“Hold on,” Jacob rumbles, stripping Pratt out of his pullover. He unzips the front of his own sweatshirt, tugging it off, “Sit up.”

Pratt frowns, but listens, sitting up as well as he can with Jacob’s weight still half on top of him.

“Put it on,” he instructs, holding out his sweatshirt so that Pratt can slip his arms into the holes and zip up the front, it’s huge on him, “there we go.” The sweatshirt is warm against his skin, smells like Jacob’s cigarettes and his harsh soap.

Pratt doesn’t have anymore time to dwell on it before Jacob is on him again, shoving down Pratt’s boxers and freeing his cock from the loose confines of his underwear. The lube is still in the bedroom, but as usual, Jacob has packets in his pocket. Pratt doesn’t know where he keeps getting those or where he’s hiding them when they’re not together but they sure are convenient. Jacob strips out of his his pants, but as always, leaves his shirt on.

“You like it face to face, don’t you?” Jacob asks like an accusation, smoothing down Pratt’s hair with one hand while the other works inside of him. Stretching him open to take Jacob’s cock. “Like to watch me fuck you.”

Pratt bears down on Jacob’s fingers, squirming when Jacob brushes against his prostate, toes curling and abdomen already tight. God, he hates having such hair trigger reactions still. He finally admits, “Yeah, I do…”

Jacob’s cock knocks the wind out of him on the first thrust, getting all the way inside at once. Pratt bites into his own lip not to cry out. It hurts like the first time again. Like in the barn where his back came back rubbed raw. They’re too sporadic in their hook-ups for him to really get his bearings. But after a couple of strokes the discomfort mixes with that pleasant feeling he’s always chasing. The one where Jacob warms him, inside and out. The strange, heady feeling of being possessed, and the way Jacob looks back at him, like he’s possessed too.

“Tell me when you’re close,” Jacob kisses his cheek. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the top of Pratt’s head smashing into the armrest, straining his neck. 

Jacob puts his hand over Pratt’s throat, wrapping his fingers around. The webbing between his thumb and pointer fingers digging into Pratt’s Adam’s apple. Looking back into Jacob’s eyes, Pratt mouths, “Do it,” though he’s not entirely sure what ‘it’ is.

Applying a little pressure, Jacob cuts off his air. Enough that Pratt has to heave to suck air down. His body starts to panic, thrash, with Jacob still inside him. His back arches harshly, hips bucking, and Jacob lets up.

“Oh god,” Pratt lolls his head to one side, sucking in air as quickly as he can manage. “Oh god,” Jacob’s hand descends on his throat again, a little longer this time, enough that he feels his lungs start to burn, his body trying viciously to throw Jacob off, but he’s too big and too strong and looming. His bright eyes piercing into Pratt’s panicked ones and god, he’s about to come but he can’t tell Jacob, he can’t speak. “Jacob,” he’s hoarse and terrified, trembling when Jacob stops. He feels like he’s run ten miles, all his muscles ache.

Jacob pulls out suddenly, so that he can get his mouth around Pratt’s cock. He sucks Pratt down, fingering his hole until he comes in rapid spurts. Jacob swallows this time, sliding back up Pratt’s body until their chests are flush. 

“You alright there, Peaches? he asks, warm and full of genuine concern.

“Yeah,” Pratt says, his stomach clenching, “Yeah I liked it.” And fuck, what does it say about him that he liked it? Liked that Jacob could have snapped his neck, could have put him fucking out. Could have had everything.

“Mmm,” Jacob hums, running his fingers through Pratt’s hair again. “Want to paint your pretty face with my come, you let me do that?”

Pratt nods.

Jacob shoves down his shoulders, to pull Pratt’s head away from the armrest to make room for his knees. Straddling Pratt’s face, with his thighs pinned on either side of Pratt’s head, Jacob takes the condom off. He strokes himself furiously with one hand, the sound of beating flesh so fucking loud in Pratt’s ears. The other hand holds Pratt’s hair. Pratt lifts his head just enough to try and stroke the head of Jacob’s cock with his tongue, but Jacob shoves him back down. His knees tighten over Pratt’s ears as come spills over his fist, staining Pratt’s lips, his cheeks, his hair. Pratt coughs as it dribbles into his mouth.

They’re both still breathing heavily as Jacob climbs off of him, standing to the side of the couch. He looks around for where he tossed his pants and for Pratt’s boxers, starting to get dressed.

He helps Pratt sit up watching his face closely. “Leave it for now, won’t you?” Jacob asks, and it takes Pratt a moment to realize he’s talking about his semen on Pratt’s face. Some of it drips down his neck, getting on the inside collar of Jacob’s hoodie.

“Okay…”

Jacob touches his cheek, “You go grocery shopping recently?” He sticks his dirtied thumb into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Pratt answers, “couple of days ago.”

Jacob leads him by the hand to the kitchen, telling him to sit down at the table. He makes hamburgers from the ground beef that Pratt bought, frying them on the stove. It’s more meat than the two of them can eat in one sitting, but Pratt will be thankful to just come home and microwave the patties after work. Saves him the trouble.

Jacob keeps stealing looks at him, smiling softly. Pratt feels kind of gross and sticky, sitting in the kitchen, wearing Jacob’s too-big sweatshirt and his come. But it’s tolerable. And he can shower after Jacob leaves.

As they eat, Jacob asks him about work. Pratt tells him about the body. Jacob goes stiff in response.

“Sorry,” Pratt says, “probably not appropriate dinner conversation.”

Jacob shrugs, “I’ve seen more bodies than you ever will.”

Pratt feels fucking stupid, because of course Jacob has seen plenty of corpses. But that doesn’t explain Jacob’s reaction. “I’ll see more...it’s part of the job. But yeah, I don’t suppose it’s at all the same as the military.”

Jacob frowns at him, “Say that to me twenty years ago, and I would have told you it’ll make you stronger. More resilient than other men.”

“And now?” Pratt ventures. He knows so little of Jacob’s past.

“It will make you strong, capable, for awhile. But what does that matter, when in the end, you’re no better than ground up meat? You’re the same as those bodies you learn not to care about.”

Except Pratt already doesn’t care. 

“You still wish that I were stronger. More like you?” Pratt’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s healthy and athletic, he’s a goddamn deputy who can run a six-thirty mile if pressed. Hell, there are some things he’s certain he can do better than Jacob. If he’s not mistaken, Jacob’s not that flexible, and Pratt has a small arsenal of simple flips and things that he and Caleb taught themselves to do in high school. Yeah, they ended up with a bunch of suspicious bruises in the process. But totally worth it when they pulled out tricks at parties.

“I want you to be ready for….nevermind,” Jacob shakes his head. “I should get going. Here, stand up.” He unzips his sweatshirt, pulling it off Pratt’s shoulders and then puts it on himself. Flipping the hood up, he kisses Pratt full on the lips, licking over them. Tasting himself mixed in with Pratt.

—

That same afternoon, as he’s leaving to head back to the station, Pratt hears whispers, following him outside, as he walks from his house to his car. Only a few steps in the chilly air. But voices carry. Residents talking to each other on their front steps. Like they want him to hear. They definitely want him to hear. To know that they know.

A man, in a gray car. Has to be a man. Too big otherwise. Middle of the night. Seen him before.

Pratt tries to put it out of mind. It’s nothing. Nothing. They don’t know. He’s allowed to have friends visit him. It’s his own damn house. So what if those friends visit between the hours of three and four? They don’t know his ‘friend’ fucks him senseless, makes him hamburgers, kisses his come-stained face.

His mother calls him on Tuesday, when he doesn’t visit after work. He fails to pick up his phone. She calls again. He doesn’t answer.

The whispers don’t stop. They just can’t help themselves, following him like a choking cloud. He’s at the grocery store, buying fucking eggs and cereal and cold cuts. Trying to be a normal person. And he hears them, coming up from behind.

At his home in Silverlake. Always at night. Hides his face. Big guy. House goes mostly quiet. But you can hear the deputy. How much he likes it.

Pratt doesn’t say a word, quietly fuming in the harsh florcencents at the gas station, grabbing a bottle of water and three packs of gum. By the end of the week his shoulders are tight, his stomach empty. Can’t think about keeping anything down.

Does Jacob know? He never hears Jacob’s name tossed in with the speculation. Of course not. Who would expect Deputy Pratt’s visitor to be Jacob Seed? No one. But that doesn’t change the fact that the whole fucking county is onto them. That Jacob might not be willing to take the risk.

His mother calls on Friday, this time he has to answer. She fuming, worried. She was about to call the Sheriff. Pratt tells her that he’s sorry. He hasn’t been feeling well. He braces himself, worried that she’ll say something. That she’ll ask about the rumors. She doesn’t. They schedule again for him to come over on Sunday.

Joey shows up at his house, when she gets off shift at eight. A six pack that isn’t actually cold enough tucked under one arm. She’s still in uniform, pounding on Pratt’s door.

“You can’t take no for an answer, dipshit,” she pushes inside.

Depositing the beers on the kitchen table, she opens one, passes it to him, opens a second for herself.

“Let me be clear about this,” she starts, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her cute little maroon cap still firmly planted on her head. “Because you can’t take a fucking hint. I have a girlfriend in Missoula.”

“Oh,” Pratt responds, dumbfounded at the situation. He hasn’t touched his beer yet, “is she nice?” Instead of drinking, he picks at the label.

“She’s fucking great,” Joey sneers, “now stop shutting me the fuck out because you think I’m like _them_. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for months.”

“About what?” Pratt plays dumb. She can’t possibly know, can she? Well, she might know that Pratt is attracted to men. Because everyone else except his mother has assumed that part by now. But she can’t know about Jacob...right?

She sighs, “Is Caleb really in New York? What the fuck is going on?”

Caleb. She thinks this is about Caleb. Tall, face covered, sneaking into Pratt’s house late at night. They were best friends for years, after all. The whole county knows that. It’s the logical extension, right? 

“Is he using mommy and daddy’s money to fly out and visit you?”

Dumbly, Pratt nods, keeping up with the lie Joey tells herself, but no, he’s sure to get caught out this way...if Caleb ever comes back to Hope County. But Joey’s assumptions are so easy to agree to.

“It’s not...Caleb is straight, Joey,” he watches as her eyes soften. “Every time I fucking open Facebook, it’s a different girl…Caleb is straight, okay?” Not ‘I’m straight,’ but _Caleb_ is. So, Pratt figures, Hudson knows _something_ for certain now. He’s told her without really telling her.

“Oh, Stace…” she’s manages to forget all about Pratt’s ‘visitor,’ too focused now on what she presumes to be Pratt’s festering heartbreak, his pining for his best friend, however false. Yeah, he misses Caleb, a hell of a fucking lot. More than he’s admitted to himself. But it has absolutely nothing to do with desire. He just wants his friend back. And he’s not going to get him.

They drink their way through the tepid six pack. Changing the subject, Joey asks him if he’s excited for the training sessions Whitehorse lined up for him in December? There’s less shit for the deputies to do in the winter, and that means that Pratt can finally get some proper courses in. Additional handgun training, a rifle course, evidence collection and processing procedures. He’s mostly been learning on the job, and he’s had his gun license since eighteen. But Joey says Whitehorse arranged the same for her in her first year, even though she had come straight out of the military. She brags that she was as good with the rifle as her instructor. The mini-vacation in Missoula is nice, though. Even if he’s put up at the Motel 6.

“I asked about the department paying for a helicopter license,” Pratt tells her, “since Froelich is the only one with one now. And Davies won’t let me drive the fucking cruiser.”

Joey laughs at that, “You let him push you around. Want me to talk to him?”

Pratt rolls his eyes, “Oh god no, that’ll just make it worse. Anyway, Whitehorse said yes. But it’ll have to wait until the spring session.”

He wants to ask about Joey’s girlfriend, genuinely curious. He’s never heard or seen anything about her. But if she lives in Missoula, that would explain it. But he’s worried that if he asks, she’ll remember the rumors about Pratt’s night-time visitor and right now, they’re having a good time, enjoying each other’s company.

Before she leaves, she tells him that she won’t lie to him, it’s hard. It’s fucking hard no matter where you live. But Hope County is hard, too. He should try not to fixate on Caleb too much. Even here, he’ll find someone who cares about him. 

Pratt nods mutely, hugging her goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to mention this before, but for those who don't know [Death Cab for Cutie - Title and Registration](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGEyqP0744c) is the theme I'm using for this. Really the Transatlanticism album in general


	7. Chapter 7

Pratt drives out to Missoula in the early morning, the mountain haze clouding the roads for the first ten miles out of the valley, until the morning sun bakes the moisture out of the air. The first half of the drive is miles of open quiet, his stereo clicking through the playlist he set up. He skips through tracks he thought he wanted, but now realizes are too slow, too sad.

The last hour into the city he actually encounters other vehicles, other than just the occasional lone truck. People on their morning commutes from the outer edges of the Missoula metro, driving into town for work. Pratt tries not to think that much about their lives. Because he knows, he _knows_ how small he is, now insignificant. That Missoula isn’t much of a city at all. But it’s bigger than Bozeman and that’s more expensive than Pratt can really claim any sense of comfort with.

He has to head straight to his first training session at ten am. Checking into the motel can wait until this afternoon. This week, he has the evidence and procedures course in the morning, all of six people on attendance. In the afternoon, he has rifle handling. That one isn’t strictly for law enforcement, but there are three of them who are in both classes. Himself, a man named Noah Johnson, and a woman, Maggie Fowler. Both of them are about Pratt’s age. Johnson maybe couple years older. But not much. At the end of the afternoon session, Johnson introduces himself to both Pratt and Fowler, asking if they’re deputies too?

“Yeah,” Pratt says, “I’m still on probation.” He doesn’t think about that too much normally. While he’s definitely treated as the rookie, no one is particularly concerned with his probationary period. Whitehorse is going to clear him no matter what. But it seems kind of important here that he at least gives the impression that his Sheriff is following protocol.

“Me too,” Fowler follows up.

Johnson has been off for two months now, but he was an emergency hire last Fall when a deputy in Flathead County died on the job. Heart attack in his cruiser. So there wasn’t time for extra training courses before now.

They talk for a couple minutes, just bullshit pleasantries, feeling each other out, before agreeing to grab dinner together, nothing fancy. None of them have the energy for that. In the end, Johnson drives them through McDonalds, Fowler in the front passenger side and Pratt in the back. 

Fowler’s department put up at the Motel 6 too, and the three of them eat in her room, wrappers tossed onto the second bed because her Sheriff accidentally booked her a double room.

Over dinner they swap stories from their patrols, all of them work in rural townships, nature of the job. Fowler is originally from Helena, though. Johnson teases her, calling her a big-city gal. She throws her sunny-yellow, balled up cheeseburger wrapper in his face.

They’ve all got to be up early in the morning, so they break up after dinner. Pratt heads back to his room, stomach full of greasy food and pleasantly buzzed from socializing. 

He lays in bed with his shoes still on and stares at Jacob’s number on his phone. There’s no reason to call. But having a number still feels good in a way that makes Pratt think he—they—him and Jacob—might be secure. Despite the rumors swirling about him, and only him, not Jacob, back in Hope County, he’s happy. He’ll deal with what’s left of the fallout when he gets back on Friday evening. Hell, by then, they may have moved on to some other gossip. 

—

The next two days he eats dinner with Fowler and Johnson again, falling into an easy routine. Path of least resistance. When they run out of stories from their short careers as deputies, they move on to their college years. Well, Johnson didn’t go to college, military instead, then straight on to the deputy’s post. Doesn’t regret it, he tells them, saved him a lot of debt.

Pratt will be paying down his loans for the next ten years. But it’s manageable with his salary. Yeah, he doesn’t have a ton of cushion every month, especially now that he lives on his own. But he’s still far from broke. Besides, while he has older cousins who went to college before him, he knows it’s a source of pride for his mother that he finished when she never went.

Fowler went to MSU-Billings and played soccer there. Got a little scholarship money for it. She wasn’t good enough to play DI but her parents and loans helped her come up with the rest of the money she needed.

Thursday after their rifle course, Fowler says she’s beat, and heading straight back to the hotel. Johnson shrugs, and asks Pratt if he still wants to grab dinner? Though Pratt likes the company, he declines. Truth be told, he’s feeling a little worn out too. And they’ve got another week of this. They’ve already confirmed that their Sheriffs must do this shit on purpose, because all three of them are in classes again next week.

Pratt drives through McDonalds again and sits in the center of his motel bed eating chicken nuggets and watching basketball highlights. They only gave him two sauce packs for twenty nuggets and that’s a fucking crime against humanity. He’s still trying to stretch the sauce as far as it will go when there’s a knock at his door.

He checks the peephole and opens the door when he sees Fowler on the other side. She’s got shoes on, but otherwise looks like she’s ready for bed, in an oversized shirt and pair of running shorts.

“Hey there,” she grins, touching the center of Pratt’s chest, “lonely?”

Oh. Shit.

“Um,” he grabs her wrist gently, pulling it away. “I’m not…” Not interested? Not available? Not able to really say? “I’m with someone.”

“Oh!” she flushes immediately, snatching her hand back. “I am so, so sorry.” She laughs, “you didn’t mention anyone.” One of their conversations over the last few days drifted into personal relationships. Johnson has a fiancée and Fowler said explicitly that she’s single. Pratt had just kept his fucking mouth shut at that point. So he sees where she might have assumed.

“Ah, no, but, I’m sort of private about some things.”

“No, no it’s entirely my fault for assuming,” she beams. “Please forget this ever happened so I can show my face in class tomorrow morning!” She gives him a little wave before leaving for her room.

—

Pratt doesn’t even try to get in contact with Jacob over the weekend that he’s back in Hope County. He only has two days and then he’s gone again. To appease his mother, he spends most of his time with her, including sleeping in his old room on Friday and Saturday nights. She does his laundry, which really, she didn’t have to. He told her not to. But she went into his old room while he was in the shower and took his dirty clothes from Missoula out of his duffel bag. At least there wasn’t anything incriminating in there.

Joey joins them for dinner on Saturday. She arrives bundled up in a puffy coat, with about three layers of mismatched flannel underneath. Pratt gets the distinct feeling that his mom is trying to set them up, or thinks they’re already together, which is weird, but not entirely unexpected. Hell, she may even be conspiring with the Hudsons. But Pratt is twenty-two and Joey is twenty-eight—and then Pratt realizes how ridiculous that train of thought is when the man he’s sleeping with turns _forty-four_ in February.

—

There’s a snowstorm at the end of Pratt’s second week of courses in Missoula, starting on Thursday night and stretching into Friday. Pratt manages to trudge to the final day of his CQC course, but there’s no way he can drive back to Hope County in these conditions.

The class has been fine. Useful. But not as precise or exacting as Jacob’s impromptu training in the mountains. The instructor didn’t bother to make executing the maneuvers difficult. Didn’t tell them to repeat the same steps over and over until they were perfect. Only until they were good enough. 

Even so, Pratt thinks some of the takedowns and holds might be a good starting point, work on tourists and drunks just fine. Would never work against someone clever, someone with more training, wouldn’t work against Jacob. Maybe Pratt can adapt, though. Refine the basic principles into something that will help him be better than Jacob expects, next time.

At the end of the morning session, they all get little stockcard certificates of completion. Pratt is supposed to give his over to the Sheriff, still has the ones from last week in his glove compartment. The instructor calls the names of five students who are in the pistol course as well, giving them certificates for that. With the weather, they’re sending everybody home now. Never mind that none of them can actually _get_ home with the roads snowed over.

Johnson comes over to him, once the group has broken up, slapping Pratt on the shoulder and loudly proclaiming they’d better hit up the liquor store before it closes. If he’s about to be stranded in Missoula for another night, he doesn’t want to remember a lick of it. Fowler enthusiastically agrees, bouncing on the balls of her feet and suggesting wine instead of beer.

“Gets the job done faster, cheaper.”

Pratt and Johnson can’t argue with that.

Johnson volunteers to drive them around. They can come back for their cars in the morning. His Jeep has four-wheel drive and both Pratt and Fowler have rear-wheel vehicles. His department put him up at the Holiday Inn again and there’s more than enough space for all three of them to crash. Hopefully by the morning, the plows will be out in full-force, and they’ll all be able to go home. 

They spin by the Motel 6 first, so Pratt and Fowler can grab their shit and check out of their rooms. All piled back into Johnson’s jeep, they hit up the liquor store next. Fowler buys two bottles of prosecco and Johnson, against Fowler’s advice, buys two six packs of hard cider. Pratt almost goes for a bottle of cheap gin. They could get really fucked up if they wanted. But Fowler points out they all want to live until tomorrow and he buys a $5 bottle of merlot instead.

Forgetting to buy cups, they share wine straight from the bottle, passing the prosecco around first. Johnson says the others will all thank him later for the cider. It’ll be an easy way to coast once they reach ideal drunkenness. 

They ramble through finding stories that they haven’t told each other yet. Mostly shit from their childhoods now, as they keep going back in time for anecdotes. Fowler’s have decisively less wildlife involved, city girl, after all. Pratt tries not to bring up Caleb every other word.

Johnson manages to loop back around to a story from the army he forgot to tell before. It involves peanut butter and several rifles that were eventually flagged as “lost.” That’s when Pratt’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Caleb - New” flashing on the screen.

“I gotta take this,” Pratt pushes himself to his feet. He sways slightly, his stomach and brain protesting as the sudden jerking, but he manages to settle them down before he hurls or faints.

He stumbles out of Johnson’s room and into the hallway, but that’s not really safe either. But he can’t let the phone ring and ring. Halfway to the elevator he picks up, “Hello?” It still feels unsafe to say Jacob’s name over the phone. Even though he’s hours from Hope County and no one knows them here.

“Peaches, you’re not driving, are you?”

“No,” the elevator dings and he gets on, heading down to the lobby. “I’m spending one more night is Missoula, waiting for the roads to clear.”

“Where are you?”

“In _Missoula_ ,” he already told Jacob that.

“Where in Missoula.”

“Oh.” The elevator hits the lobby and he heads straight out the sliding glass doors into the frigid air. The heavy snow has stopped, but there are still sparse flakes falling into Pratt’s loose hair. “The Holiday Inn, I’m staying with some friends from the course.”

“Mmm, have you been drinking?” Jacob asks.

It’s fucking freezing in the parking lot. Pratt didn’t think to grab his jacket. He has a long sleeve shirt and flannel on, but that’s nowhere near enough for December. Even if he’s slightly warmed by the wine in his stomach. “Yeah, a bit.”

“Sounds like it,” there’s an odd affection in Jacob’s voice, “did you eat?”

Pratt rolls his eyes, the last thing he needs is another mother nagging him, “Yeah, we got food too. I’m fine, I’m good.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jacob replies. “It’s good you’re not driving. When is your next day off?”

Pratt has to check his calendar to be sure, “One second.”

It takes two tries to bring up his schedule. He might be drunker than he thought. “The 28th and the 29th. I have both off. Gotta work both holidays.”

“Still wanna take you hunting,” Jacob says, “the 29th. Meet me at Jefferson Lookout Tower, at five. Dress for the weather.”

“Okay,” Pratt will make sure to go see and appease his mother on the 28th. She already raised hell about working Christmas, but that can’t be avoided. Jacob says his goodbyes and Pratt shivers as he runs back into the lobby, shaking moisture from his hair.

When he gets back to Johnson’s room, he’s locked out. He has to bang on the door to get them to open up. Fowler throws herself into his arms exclaiming, “You’re back! Was that your giiiiirlfrieeeend?”

Pratt’s mood sours instantly. But he’s so accustomed to lying that he pushes, “Yeah,” through his teeth.

—

Christmas is fucking hell.

Joey tries to warn him. It’s the hardest of all the holidays.

Pratt asks her why? People are just as drunk, maybe more, on the Fourth of July and Halloween. They’d been breaking up fights from one end of the county to the other. It had been fucking exhausting. 

“Domestics,” is her answer. But Pratt has seen plenty of those too, since June. 

But there really is something different, about watching a man beat his wife on Christmas morning, while their children scream.

It isn’t just one call, either. And sometimes it’s the kids, broken up by belts and fists, and not the wife. 

Pratt thinks about the silver lines on Jacob’s stomach, over the tops of his thighs. 

Christmas is fucking hell.

—

Pratt wakes up at three-thirty, to make it Jefferson by five. He doesn’t really have the right clothes for hunting, and there was no time to get anything new. The last time he went hunting was when he and Caleb were seventeen. Caleb’s dad took them. Just whitetail deer. They’d bagged two does by nine am. Called it a day after that.

But he’s got thick cargo pants and hiking boots and enough flannels to layer under his down jacket that he won’t freeze to death. Green hat and black gloves and a dark gray scarf to cover his face. So while it’s not like, fancy hunting gear, it’ll do. He has a feeling Jacob won’t mind.

Pratt doesn’t own his own rifle, just a sidearm. But Jacob had mentioned using a bow when he brought up hunting before. Pratt definitely doesn’t have a bow, but he assumes Jacob must have that covered. If not, they’ll just have to make due.

The drive takes longer than Pratt expects. The roads aren’t great this time of year and he has to be careful getting up the mountain. It’s ten after five by the time he makes it to the lookout. Supposedly, it’s staffed by park rangers, but Pratt can’t see any signs of life. Really likely that someone is asleep at their post, given the early hour.

Jacob is in the black sedan again, not the gray one he always drove to the park. When Pratt pulls up, Jacob gets out of his car, going around to the rear to pop the trunk. He gestures for Pratt to stay in the car, grabbing what he needs from the sedan. Pratt unlocks the car as Jacob approaches the passenger side. Jacob puts the bows and other supplies into the backseat of Pratt’s compact.

“Drive over to the other side of the ridge,” Jacob points where Pratt should go, “we’ll leave on foot from there.” He climbs in and leave his seatbelt off.

It’s only a quarter mile to the next lot, where they leave Pratt’s car. Jacob has already split up the hunting gear, it’s not much, light packs with food and water, extra sets of clothing, arrow quivers, and the bows themselves. The one Jacob gives him looks new, but otherwise matches Jacob’s. 

“You’ll keep it,” Jacob says, “it’s for you.”

Pratt thanks him, though he has nothing to give Jacob in return for Christmas. Though, Pratt doubts that is what this is about. The timing is just what worked out with their schedules.

Jacob leads them into the wooded mountainside. He explains they’re hunting boar, which isn’t something Pratt has done before. It makes him a little uneasy, to be hunting down more aggressive prey with a weapon he’s not used to handling. But Caleb’s dad taught them the barest basics of tracking, which amounted to ‘be quiet.’ At the very least, Jacob doesn’t say anything as they carefully wind their way through the trees.

Jacob points out animal tracks in the snow. Pratt doesn’t even know enough to recognize them as boar. The snow accumulation isn’t much with the tree cover overhead. The pines keep much of it from ever reaching the ground, but there are still distinct tracks in the mix of snow and dirt.

“How far away?” Jacob asks him, as if he should be able to tell.

Going for broke, Pratt takes off his glove, sticking his fingers in the the track like that will help at all. 

Next to him, Jacob chuckles, “Easier to tell by whether or not the snow has frozen back up.”

Pratt frowns, looking at the track again while putting his glove back on. He gets what Jacob means now. When the boar steps into the snow, it cracked the thin, hard layer of frost. The edges of this footprint have frozen back up since the animal has been through.

“It’s not close,” Pratt settles on, though he can’t give Jacob an exact time.

“Good,” Jacob says, like Pratt’s correct answer is a reflection of his own achievement.

They follow the tracks another quarter mile. This time, Pratt checks the edges without Jacob’s prompting. They’re still soft and slightly wet, “Now we’re close.”

Jacob nods. They circle the area, Pratt at Jacob’s heels. When they spot the boar, they both crouch down low, upwind from the animal. Jacob stays quiet as he can while he explains how to place the shot. Boar are tough bastards, one arrow might not be enough. It is equally likely to charge as to flee. 

Pratt swallows hard. Jacob means for him to take the first shot. The only archery he’s had was a couple of weeks in high school gym class. Never at a moving target, much less a live one that might attack when provoked.

He knows the basics of handling a bow. How to notch the arrow, draw, and kind of aim. But the bows in gym class didn’t have sights on them. The principle is probably the same as a rifle. Arrows don’t move as fast, and there’s more drag. The trajectory is different. Is he supposed to aim a little higher than his target? Jacob hasn’t given much to work with. Yet seems to be expecting great things.

Lining up his shot, Pratt pulls the notched arrow back. He exhales as he fires. The arrow buries in the tree just above the boar’s back.

“Fuck,” Pratt curses softly. The boar runs away, further up the gently sloping mountainside.

“Gotta follow it,” Jacob says. Offering no praise and no contempt.

The tracks are easy to follow now, a smeared mess of dirt and snow as the boar scurries away. Pratt can still hear it too, squealing as it makes its escape. He and Jacob keep the same slow, steady pace as always, letting the boar get out ahead of them. But the animal is sure to tire before they do.

Another thirty minutes and they’ve gained on the boar again. They repeat the process of crouching low. Pratt aims, he fires, this time, catching the boar solidly in the flank. The animal is injured, but not dead. Fuck, it’s crying sounds near human. Screaming, wailing pain. Sharp and excruciating in Pratt’s ears. This time, instead of running, the boar turns in the direction of its assailant, screeching and barreling towards Pratt and Jacob’s position.

Pratt hurries to notch another arrow, but he’s panicked and fires off too soon. Next to him, Jacob draws, aims, fires, the arrow piercing the boar in the center of the chest. With one final scream it dies, flopping into its side and sinking into the snow. Jacob stands, heading towards the carcass. Pratt follows.

“I’ll show you how to skin it properly,” Jacob says, pulling his hunting knife from where it’s strapped to his thigh.

They don’t want the meat, just the skin. They’ll leave the rest of the carcass behind for scavengers. Pratt doesn’t even bother asking Jacob about his hunting license. Boar aren’t one of the animals the state is particularly concerned with. Besides, that’s a matter for the park rangers, not the sheriff’s office, as far as Pratt is concerned.

Jacob tells him to pay attention as he’s cutting. Pratt will be expected to do the next one. He takes off his gloves as not to bloody them, carefully cutting away the connective tissue that latches the hide to the animal’s meat. He cuts the tusks as well and once he’s satisfied, stuffs the hide into a special sack he’s brought with him. 

It takes them another forty minutes to pick up another trail, though this time, following the animal is faster. Pratt already feels more in tune with the rhythm of the boar’s footprints, anticipating where it might turn off between the trees, leading to fewer false leads. This time, they’re able to find a position that gives them elevation over the targeted boar. 

Pratt crouches down, remembering what Jacob told him. He draws, aims, fires.

The boar still doesn’t go down in a single hit. But Pratt keeps his head on well enough to get a second arrow into the animal before it can charge them, catching it in the center of the chest like he watched Jacob do last time. The boar still doesn’t go down, and it takes a third arrow from Jacob before it finally falls.

Next to him, Jacob grumbles, “Better,” stalking off towards the kill. “There’s a knife for you in your pack.

Pratt drops the bag onto the ground, pulling out a hunting knife a bit smaller than Jacob’s. It’s new, well made. He crouches down next to the carcass and starts to carve, mimicking what Jacob did to the first boar. Jacob sits close to him, giving directions the whole time about where to press the blade, how much pressure to apply. It takes Pratt longer than it would Jacob, but he gets the hide off mostly intact.

By the time they’re finished it’s almost noon, Jacob deciding “that’s enough for now.” Instead of heading black down the mountain, Jacob leads them higher, until they find a reasonably dry spot to sit down.

They eat the food that Jacob packed, another combination of meat and rice. It’s filling, rather than tasting good. But Pratt isn’t about to complain about Jacob’s cooking. It’s probably better than he can do.

“You need more practice,” Jacob says, finishing off his meal. “I’ll have to find more time.”

Pratt doesn’t bother arguing that this is definitely not a skill he needs in his role as a deputy. He’s too busy relishing in the attention, having Jacob so completely focused on him. And that they get to spend more time together than the hour it takes to fuck. 

He still hasn’t asked Jacob about what they are. But he knows for certain now that this is something real. They’re building towards something. They’ve been together for months now. And Jacob said there’s no one else. 

Jacob suggests trying one more kill before they head back to the car. Pratt doesn’t mind. Jacob tells him to lead, he’ll follow. 

It’s past two pm when Pratt has eyes on the final boar. This time, he wants to show Jacob he can do this alone. But as he crouches down, Jacob comes up behind him, pressing his broad chest to Pratt’s back, wrapping his hands over top of Pratt’s on both the bow grip and the string.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” Pratt asks. He’s trying to do this right.

“No,” Jacob breathes into his ear, “I guess it’s not.”

Pratt never gets the shot off, Jacob shoving him down so he’s face down in the snow and dirt. He hears the boar run away and Jacob’s heavy breathing against the side of his face, beard scratching into Pratt’s cheek. 

Jacob pulls the bow out from under his stomach, fishing around until he has the arrow too. Pratt tries to fight him off, but doesn’t scream. He’s not afraid. This is a game. One that he’s more than willing to play. He tries to throw Jacob off of him, but Jacob grabs his wrists, pinning them easily above Pratt’s head with one hand. He strains against Jacob’s hold, trying to break free, thrashing with his legs just enough to make Jacob work for it.

Pratt groans as Jacob grinds on top of him, the outline of his erection pressing firmly against Pratt’s ass. They’re both wearing too many layers for the contact to be direct, but Pratt responds like they’re skin on skin, his own cock pressed against the frozen ground.

“So good, so pretty, just for me,” Jacob praises, resting more of his weight on Pratt’s hips. He has to let go of Pratt’s hands to slide down his body and Pratt makes one more attempt to “escape,” clawing at the ground and trying to drag himself away. But Jacob is too heavy for him to throw off. Jacob hastily pulls down Pratt’s cargo pants, exposing his ass and upper thighs to the open air.

Jacob grabs his ass with both hands, pulling him apart to expose his hole. He buries his face between Pratt’s cheeks, licking him open while Pratt rubs himself against the ground, melted snow mixed in with dirt staining the front of his pants. The texture of Jacob’s beard scratches in between his legs, the edge of discomfort mixing in with the soft lapping of Jacob’s tongue.

Pulling back, Jacob shoves two spit-soaked fingers into Pratt, pushing and curling and stretching until he brushes against his prostate. He leans over, his free hand digging into the base of Pratt’s spine, to whisper into his ear that if he’s good, he’ll come for Jacob, make a fucking mess of himself.

With his hands free, Pratt reaches backwards, grabbing Jacob’s hat and tearing it off, going back to get a fistful of his hair instead. He pulls until Jacob hisses, slamming his fingers deeper into Pratt’s stretched hole.

“If you want me to come, you better give me that cock,” Pratt growls. He’s able now to just get enough space to thrust back onto Jacob’s fingers.

“Oh, that what you want, _Peaches?_ Want me to fuck you in the dirt?”

“Yeah,” Pratt pants, so keyed up he thinks he might say yes to anything. His coat is filthy and the front of his jeans are soaked through, freezing, “Yeah put it in me.”

Jacob gets off of him just long enough to grab is pack, searching around inside the main compartment until he gets lube and a condom. Climbing onto Pratt again, he puts one fist into Pratt’s hair, wrenching his head around so that they can kiss, Pratt biting into Jacob’s bottom lip until he yanks Pratt away, shoving his face back towards the icy ground.

The position is an awkward one, with Jacob’s knees on the outside of Pratt’s legs, forcing him to keep his legs together as Jacob tries to push into him. God he feels fucking tight, he can’t imagine what it must feel like for Jacob as he finally squeezes the head in. The pressure of it knocks the wind out of Pratt, and he doesn’t catch his breath until Jacob is buried to the hilt.

“Oh, god, ohgodohgod, fuck me, Jacob. Fuck me.”

Jacob jackrabbits into him a dozen times and Pratt comes in his pants, his cock rubbing against the ground on every hammered thrust. He’s near delirious when he feels Jacob tense above him a minute later, pulling out suddenly. Trying to crane his head to see what Jacob is doing, he feels the splash of Jacob coming across his ass and upper thighs.

He’s a fucking wreck.

Jacob is gentle with him afterwards, pulling Pratt’s pants back up over the mess he made and turning Pratt onto his back. He leans over to kiss Pratt, slow and strangely sweet, given the fuck that just proceeded. Pratt presses his muddied fingers against Jacob’s red cheeks, trying to get more dirt onto him.

Pulling back, Jacob promises, “Only you.”

It’s going to take another hour to walk back to where they parked Pratt’s car. His pants are a goddamn mess, covered in mud and come and who knows what the fuck else. His jacket is dirty too, but at least that will wipe clean with water and a little pressure.

“There’s another pair of pants in your bag,” Jacob reminds him.

Pratt has half a mind to just leave his cargos in the woods, rather than deal with them. But it’s probably better to throw them out in the trash can in the parking lot. He wipes himself down the best he can with the parts of his boxers that aren’t already filthy, shivering in the cold and trying not to literally freeze his dick off. The spare pants that Jacob packed for him are a little big around the waist, but manageable. 

“I tried to guess your size,” Jacob explains. 

Pratt keeps his soiled cargos bundled under one arm as they head back down the mountain. Once they reach the parking lot, Jacob doesn’t say anything when Pratt throws them away. Probably safer here than in the trailer park. Fewer curious eyes.

Jacob says he’ll walk back to his car. Pratt should keep the pack, and everything inside. They’ve already used most everything, but there are other useful tools in there, compass, rope, extra gloves, ice pick, things like that. They’re all for him.

They don’t say goodbye. Jacob sticking his hands in his pockets, bow still slung across his back, departs.


	8. Chapter 8

New Year’s Eve in Hope County is all hands on deck, both for the deputies and the EMTs. The workload is expected to be heavier than Christmas, but, Joey promises him, emotionally much easier to reconcile.

“Everyone just wants to get drunk as shit and have a good time,” she rolls her eyes, “just the times can get too good. You know?” She spins around in her desk chair, waiting for Whitehorse to come to the bullpen in an dole out their assignments. On her third go-around, the back of her chair smashes into the edge of her desk, and she nearly tumbles to the floor in shock. The impact knocks the left half of tinsel garland she hasn’t taken down since Christmas from the front of her desk loose, sloping sadly down towards the laminate tile.

Because Pratt can never get his way when it comes to assignments, he ends up partnered with Davies for the night. Whatever, Pratt didn’t want to drive anyway. He and Davies head out in one of the cruisers to make their rounds, radio in hand in case there’s an emergency dispatch from Nancy. Whitehorse assigned them to the route that takes them past the Hollyhock and through the Henbane region, so they’re sure to get called in for something. Pratt doesn’t envy Hudson, though. She and Froelich are responsible for Fall’s End and surrounding. Which means a host of crowded house parties in town, in addition to keeping an eye on the Spread Eagle.

While trouble at the bars is to be expected, the mission critical task for the night is actually getting the most dangerous drunks off of the roads. Davies waits until they’re in the car, doors shut tight, to explain that they need to have a…higher tolerance for suspicious drivers then they might on another night. If they’re busy cornering everyone on the wrong side of their two-drink limit, they’ll leave too many gaps in coverage, and potentially let someone really wasted slip through. 

“It’s best to leave well alone,” Davies explains, putting the cruiser in reverse and backing out of the department lot.

At eleven-thirty, they get a call from Nancy to head over to the Hollyhock. Davies grumbles, even though they expected this call, and puts them en route for the bar. 

The Hollyhock is loud. The deputies can hear the party from a clear quarter-mile away, music cranked up to eardrum-shattering decibels. But that’s not the problem. The problem is Connor Balen and Frank Rogers fighting in the goddamn parking lot like a pair of fucking rabid dogs. Jesus fucking Christ.

Davies skids into the entrance of the lot, throwing the car into park and climbing out of the cruiser, just as Balen launches himself at Rogers again. Pratt rushes out the passenger side to try and get ahold of Rogers, while Davies runs to apprehend Balen. They’ve already landed enough hits that Balen’s got gross pink snot streaming down his face and the front of Rogers shirt is torn open across the breast. 

The deputies push their way through the loosely assembled crowd that has gathered round to watch the fight. It’s too cold for most, who are still packed tightly inside the bar slamming down cheap beer. You can watch a bar fight any day of the week in Hope. And on evenings when the weather isn’t so frigid. Most of the New Year’s revelers have decided to ignore whatever the fuck this is about.

Rogers isn’t much bigger than Pratt, twenty, twenty-five, pounds at most, and he’s drunk as a fucking fish, rendering him unsteady on his feet. Pratt grabs him around the waist, dragging him backwards, away from Balen, who’s still trying to claw him good, before either man can manage to land another punch. Rogers vainly tries to break free once Pratt has got a hold of him, but his limbs are too loose and his head’s not on straight either. Instead of keeping on with fighting Balen, he’s gotta turn his venom towards Pratt instead, spitting curses and throwing elbows. Scratching and clawing and shouting every fucking infuriating thing he can think of--

\--Pratt’s mind blanks out when he hears it. 

And he puts Rogers face-first in the pavement.--

“You want to fucking say that again?” Pratt snarls, volume loud and voice taut, holding Roger’s head down in the slush of snow and muck that coats the parking lot.

Rogers, who doesn’t have any sense left in him, does just that, repeating clearly what he called the deputy.

Pratt grabs Rogers by the back of his hair, lifting his head up off the pavement before smashing it back down hard enough that Rogers screams out, his nose broken and blood gushing from his face, mixing with the slush beneath Pratt’s shoes. The crowd of about a dozen gawkers goes silent. But Pratt can’t hear anything other than the blood throbbing in his ears. He grabs the cuffs from his belt, slapping them on Rodgers and hoisting him up to standing. He has half a mind to fucking throw him down again when all the fucker does is dare to _breathe_.

Fuck what the Sheriff said about keeping the peace when there’s no real damage done. Fuck him. FUCK HIM. The damage has been done to Pratt, who hauls Rogers back towards the cruiser, blood dribbling down his already-ruined shirt.

Davies doesn’t stop him, he’s still got his arms full of Balen, who has starting shaking, promising that he didn’t mean nothing, he just wants to go home. Both Davies and Balen watch as Pratt slams Rogers against the side of the cruiser. “Get in!” Pratt shrieks, shoving the drunk inside the back once the door is open, kicking at the backs of his knees. 

Pratt snaps around at Davies, “Is he coming or not?” He slams the door on its hinges, locking the handcuffed Rogers in the cruiser. The whole frame rattles on impact.

“I’m good! I’m good…” Balen promises, and Davies lets him go. He skitters off back towards the bar. Most of the crowd follows dimly after, looking for any excuse to get the fuck out while they can.

Pratt throws himself into the driver’s seat, not giving Davies the room to take the wheel. He speeds off for the station, cornering too sharply on the the dark, icy roads. 

Rogers in the back smells of grain alcohol and cigarettes, stinking up the entire car. Sniffling, he keeps trying to wipe his face with his shirt sleeve, but must have finally got it through his fucking head to keep his goddamn mouth shut.

By the time they reach the station, Pratt has cooled off, his anger turning slowly to knotted dread. 

Oh god, oh god. What the fuck did he do? He bites down harder on the steering wheel, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

They’ve already gone and arrested Rogers, which means they have to get him processed. Which means Rogers is going to tell Whitehorse what Pratt did to him. And why.

At the moment, though, Whitehorse is out on patrol in the Whitetails with Gilmore, meaning it’s just Nancy running the shop on her own. She lifts her eyebrows as Pratt drags Rogers in, Davies following on their heels, head hanging low.

Pratt gets Rogers processed as quickly as he can manage, no longer able to look him in the eye. There isn’t too much hassle about tossing a drunk in overnight. Even if Pratt might want to try charge him with something else, to at least cover his ass...assault on an officer, maybe, for what he said. Everyone fucking heard it. But, fuck. He doesn’t want to fucking write it down. Doesn’t want this reminder on his record somewhere. 

Pratt knows he’s going to have to explain himself to Whitehorse, before anything can be done.

With Rogers settled, Pratt tells Davies they can head back to the cruiser. Pratt doesn’t put up a fuss about sitting in the passenger side. His head’s still spinning a little, a throb at the front of his skull, anxiety pressing against his lungs. Because as much as he wants Rogers to pay for what he called him, he doesn’t want to explain it to the Sheriff, to say that he lost it, just because some drunk was brave enough to call him a faggot to his face. When everyone else just whispers.

The rest of the evening proceeds without major incident. Just traffic stops like everyone at the station had warned him. He lets Davies pick their targets, pulling over those drivers who might actually do some serious damage if left on the roads. Pratt does exactly what Davies tells him to do, no more, no less.

Pratt doesn’t have to wait until the morning, to find out what’s about to become of him, because around three am when they deposit their cruiser-full of drunks, Whitehorse is waiting. The Sheriff calls Pratt into his office, his face stern, lips drawn.

“Pratt….”

“It won’t happen again,” he responds before Whitehorse can admonish him. They stand across from each other, Whitehorse’s desk separating them. Might as well be the fucking canyon.

Whitehorse sighs deeply, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his graying hair. “You can’t do this, Staci. We cannot do this. We have limited resources here. I need about four more deputies than I can pay for. I don’t even have the staff to suspend you properly. If you do this again, I will have to let you go.”

“I understand, sir.”

Putting his hat back on, Whitehorse asks, “Is this going to be a problem?”

Because it’s going to happen again. Not Pratt bashing a drunk’s face in. But what Rogers said to set him off. Both of them know that much. Pratt might never have another visitor at Silverlake in the night, and the gossip mill will start churning out fresh bullshit. But this supposed fact about Deputy Pratt will linger, in the back of everybody’s mind, a festering sore that he’ll have to learn to live with. 

At least Whitehorse doesn’t ask him if it’s true.

“No, sir, it won’t be.”

—

Jacob calls him while he’s in the car with Froelich, with no possibility of picking up. Pratt hits the decline call button, sending Jacob to his voicemail. Though he doubts that Jacob will leave a message.

They’re on a property damage call. This time, it’s a randy bull that’s broken loose, running onto the road and smashing itself whole hog into an oncoming truck. The scene is messy, both literally and figuratively, as the bull and truck are both “damaged property,” the owners of each trying to scream each other down. 

Also what remains of the bull is pretty spectacularly splattered across the pavement. 

Pratt gets on the phone to animal control about sending someone over to clean up the biowaste remains. Froelich takes statements from both the owner of the bull and the owner of the truck. They’re still trying to win this by being the absolute fucking loudest, and Pratt can barely hold his conversation with Lila at control.

Lila says she’ll dispatch two agents and the truck. But they have to wait for the truck to get back. She’s got her people out delivering a pair of rehabbed pronghorn right now. But the bull will be the next call on the priority list, since the carcass is disrupting a major thruway.

Pratt hangs up with her, heading back towards the bickering parties to back up Froelich. Froelich watches the two men argue, arms crossed over his chest. “They’ll wear themselves out eventually,” he says to Pratt, largely unconcerned.

“Aw, to hell with it,” Pratt curses, “I’m tired of the noise.” He takes a deep breath, “Shut your traps for one minute!” 

The two turn their focus to Pratt, red-faced from the cold and from the yelling. Pratt wonders if his outburst at New Year’s has garnered him more respect. Or at least fear. 

“Then goddamn fucking settle this!” the truck owner raises his voice.

“Don’t,” Pratt cautions him, “make sure to remember who writes the report. We’ll take statements, but you both know that won’t make a lick of difference determining who’s at fault. I could just as soon fine both of you.”

That manages to shut both of them up. Froelich shrugs, saying he’ll go get the camera. They need to take pictures before animal control gets here. Froelich hands the camera over to Pratt, murmuring that he did good getting both of them to shut up. Pratt takes the camera from him and gets to work photographing the scene; Froelich is better at taking statements.

The tow for the truck shows up first. Pratt hurries up to take pictures of the damage. With the statements in order, Froelich tells both men they are free to go. They’ll get any applicable citations in the mail. If they want to resume their little tiff in court, they’re more than welcome.

Animal control still hasn’t shown up when Nancy radios that they have a situation just up the road. Niece found her uncle’s body locked up in his cabin. Someone has to assess the scene before the coroner takes the body out.

They’ll have to split up. If it were a smaller carcass, they could just leave and animal control could pick it up when they get the time. But the bull is still blocking the road. Froelich says he’ll do the scene up at the cabin quickly and come back for Pratt. Shouldn’t take long. Unlikely that there was foul play involved but they have to dot the Is and cross the Ts.

Froelich pulls away in the cruiser, leaving Pratt with the dead bull. At least in winter, they don’t have to worry about the flies. Pratt leans against the barrier separating the road from the open pasture, taking out his phone.

Jacob didn’t leave a message. He tries calling back, expecting to get Jacob’s voicemail. He’s surprised when Jacob picks up/ 

“Hello.”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Where are you?”

“Ha,” Pratt snickers, “on the side of Spring Road, watching a bull decompose. Waiting on animal control.”

“You really choose a very glamorous occupation,” Jacob teases him. 

“Only picked it to get laid,” Pratt admits.

Jacob snickers, “How’s that working out for you?”

“Could be better,” Pratt smiles.

“Take vacation days on the 18th and 19th of January.”

It’s already the 5th. Pratt’s not sure he’ll be able to get two days in a row on such short notice. “Why?” the answer isn’t that important. If Jacob is able to spend two whole days with him, he’ll figure out a way to make it work. Other than their hunting trip, and that time that Jacob tried to teach him takedowns, they’ve still not been able to spend more than an hour or two together the whole time they’ve been….whatever it is that they are. 

“I have to go to Billings overnight to pick up some shipments. Thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”

What Jacob is offering isn’t lost on Pratt. Not only will they’ll be able to be together, but they’ll be out of line of sight from the suspicious eyes that follow Pratt across the county. No one knows them in Billings. They could actually do things together in public they can’t do in Hope. Even if it’s just walk down the street next to each other.

“Yeah okay, yeah. I’ll put in for the days off.”

He sees the truck he’s waiting on heading down the road, “I gotta go, animal control is here.”

He hangs up on Jacob.

—

Jacob calls Pratt again on the sixteenth with more instructions. They can’t drive out of the county together, but there’s a state park lot an hour outside. Pratt can leave his civic there and they’ll drive the rest of the way in Jacob’s truck. Jacob has already arranged for everything in Billings. Pratt just needs to pack for overnight.

Packing is easier said than done, as Pratt frets over what he wants to wear. They probably won’t be doing anything as obvious as going out to dinner together. But they might walk around the city for a bit. Though, for all Pratt knows, Jacob's whole plan is to fuck him senseless in a cheap motel room and never leave. Not that Pratt would really mind that either.

He packs a pair of dress pants anyway, though he doubts he’ll get an opportunity to wear them. And a button down shirt that isn’t a flannel. But he packs an extra flannel too, so he doesn’t end up looking like a toolbox when all they do is change clothes in the morning and head back to the county. Other than his basic toiletries, he doesn’t bother with much else. Jacob always seems to have lube and condoms, but at the last minute, Pratt wraps his bottle of lube in a plastic bag and stashes that in his duffle too.

The morning he’s supposed to meet Jacob at the state park he tries harder than he should to be presentable. He’d gotten his hair cut last week in anticipation, the ends clipped to just an inch above his shoulders, still barely long enough to tie up, but short enough that he doesn’t have to. In tight fitting black jeans and a broken-in flannel, he thinks he looks pretty good. He shaves, then fusses with his hair a little bit before he has to leave.

The drive out to the park is uneventful. Though it’s still January, they haven’t gotten heavy snowfall at lower elevations since December. There’s still accumulation on the ground, but the roads are clear.

He finds Jacob’s white truck parked towards the back of the camp parking lot. Pratt pulls his civic in a few spots down. Grabbing his duffle from the trunk, he heads over, trying not to draw attention to himself. There are other cars in the lot, but no one seems to be hanging around. Probably already on the trail or at their campsites deeper in the woods.

Jacob doesn’t get out of the truck, but unlocks the cab so Pratt can throw his duffle in the back and climb into the passenger side.

It’s another four or so hours on to Billings. Jacob lets Pratt choose the radio station, saying he doesn’t care what they listen to. Mostly though, they keep it turned down and talk, maybe more than they ever have in the months they’ve been together.

Jacob asks Pratt about his parents, who they are, what they do. Pratt could have sworn he mentioned his dad being out of the picture before, but he reminds Jacob that he doesn’t even know what the guy’s face looks like. His mom has pictures of him somewhere, he supposes, but he’s never asked to see them. He tells Jacob about his mom’s family in Texas, though the last time he went to visit was the summer between his Freshman and Sophomore years of college. There are a lot of cousins. So many that Pratt can’t always keep their names straight.

“I guess I would have turned out really different, had I grown up there instead of Montana,” Pratt shrugs. He used to think about it a lot. Why he and his mother never went back, when his dad skipped out on them. Pride, maybe. He doesn’t know. But then, maybe, he wouldn’t have felt so...isolated growing up. At the time, it didn’t matter. He had Caleb. But in the last few months, he’s realized how much he maybe doesn’t fit in in Hope.

He’s trying not to pry too much into Jacob’s childhood. It’s clearly not something he wants to talk about. He works on broaching the subject of Jacob’s service, but that question is quickly dismissed. Instead, Jacob talks a little bit about working for his brother now. 

“People find comfort in his words. Peace. He speaks to them in a way others can’t.”

“Does he speak to you?” Pratt asks, genuinely curious. He figures that Eden’s Gate is some sort of Protestant-something, but doesn’t know much at all regarding what they believe. Other than a couple of scraps from that half-aborted speech in the Hollyhock parking lot last Halloween. 

Jacob sighs, “Maybe not as a messiah, but as a brother, I believe in what he’s trying to accomplish.”

“And what’s that?”

“Civilizations rise and fall, history tells us that,” Jacob explains. “Whether it’s God’s will or not, I’m not the one to judge. But this world we live in, it has to change. And we have to be prepared.”

Pratt’s grown up surrounded by a whole host of doomsday preppers, from religious zealots to conspiracy theorists, and plain old nut jobs. Comes with the territory when you live in the mountains, isolated from the larger towns. Jacob doesn’t strike him as belonging to any of those categories. Jacob is practical, reasonable. 

“He’s not….planning anything strange right?” From what Pratt has heard around, Joseph’s congregation has been steadily growing since last year. Both with locals joining the church and outsiders relocating to Hope County. They don’t cause much trouble, so it’s not really any of Pratt’s concern. He’s more interested in what Jacob believes.

Jacob laughs, “Joe wants his flock to _live_ past the Collapse, to inherent the new world that will be born here, on earth. From the ashes. He’s not telling anyone to kill themselves, if that’s what’s got you worried.”

“Okay,” Pratt’s honestly relieved. People are entitled to their religious freedoms. As long as Joseph isn’t hurting anyone.

As the hours pass, Jacob opens up more, selecting stories from his childhood that are happier to share. He talks about when John was born. Jacob was already fifteen. He doesn’t say anything about his mom or dad, but talks about how small and fragile John looked when he came home in the little blue bassinet from the hospital. How Jacob couldn’t believe that he was real.

“He was so gentle, then. Sweet. It must be weird to hear that, seeing him now,” Jacob keeps his eyes on the road.

“When did it change?” Pratt asks, hoping he hasn’t overstepped.

Jacob frowns, “We were separated when he was very small. All three of us. I...made a decision...went to juvenile detention. Didn’t see my brothers for years. When Joe found me again, he was pretty much the same as I’d remembered. But John...it’s not my place to share.”

“And your sister?” Pratt follows up. Jacob never seems to include here when speaking about his family, even in the small snippets of conversation Pratt has dragged out of him before now.

Jacob stumbles, “She’s adopted, through Joe. I only met her a few years ago.”

If nothing else, Jacob’s family sounds complicated. Pratt doesn’t want to press too hard. And he’s already happy that Jacob opened up a little. Shared some piece of himself with Pratt, even if it’s an ugly, gnarled thing. The fact he was comfortable enough to tell Pratt means the world.

Jacob’s meeting with the supplier isn’t until early in the morning, meaning they have the evening in Billings to themselves. He pulls up to the little no-name inn he’s booked, asking Pratt to wait in the truck while he checks in.

About ten minutes later, Jacob comes back out of the front office, handing Pratt his own key. “Come on, we’re in number four.” He grabs both his bag and Pratt’s from the back of the cab and heads off towards their room.

With Jacob’s hands full, Pratt gets the door. Flipping on the light, Pratt looks around. It’s way nicer than he expected, with cream colored carpets and a queen size bed. Everything looks clean, like the place has been newly renovated.

Jacob tosses both their bags onto the floor, reaching out to grab Pratt by the waist and drag him close. Pratt cranes up to capture Jacob’s lips, dragging him a little bit back down by the nape of his neck, fingers splayed across his skull.

“You’re always so good to me,” Jacob hums, dropping his hand lower to grab Pratt’s ass and squeeze. They tumble onto the bed, Jacob pawing at him the whole way down.

Pratt spreads his legs so that Jacob can fit between them and grind their cocks together. Bucking up the meet the friction, Pratt does his best to devour Jacob’s mouth, the had at the back of Jacob’s head keeping them pressed close. Jacob’s hands feel feverish, everywhere he touches, sliding up under Pratt’s shirt and flannel, grabbing at his narrow waist, itching along his ribs, up to his nipples. Pratt’s aching for it by the time Jacob pulls away, grinning.

“So good.”

“You gonna fuck me now?” Pratt sighs, stretching his hands above his head, showing Jacob the lean lines of his body. He arches his back to bump into Jacob’s chest, his shirt riding up, exposing his waist. “Gonna make me come?”

Grabbing Pratt by the backs of his knees, Jacob rearranges him on the bed. His hands dart for Pratt’s fly, undoing the button and zipping down, clumsier than he is usually. They work together to get Pratt naked, vulnerable. But Pratt feels anything but, with Jacob’s fixation latched on to him. Pratt pulls at Jacob’s sweater until he takes it off, along with the thin shirt underneath. Fiddling with Jacob’s belt buckle, Pratt encourages him to strip fully, so that when they press their bodies together again, there’s nothing left between them.

Jacob’s cock presses firmly into Pratt’s thigh, Pratt panting to “put it in, put it in, wanna feel you, oh god, fuck.”

Jacob silences him with another long, slow round of kissing, before telling Pratt to get on his stomach. Pratt tries to protest, telling Jacob that he wants to see him. Jacob promises that he will, but he’s got to open up Pratt first.

Shoving a pillow under Pratt’s hips, Jacob gets up to go for his pack. Pratt tells him he’s got a lube in his duffel. Jacob comes back with the bottle, popping open the cap and dribbling lube on Pratt’s tailbone. It’s slightly cold, and Pratt shivers as it pools. Jacob smears the lube around, letting it warm up between Pratt’s skin and his fingers, before dragging it down into Pratt’s crack and pressing into his hole. Pratt feels sloppy with it already. Jacob is using more lube than they need. 

Jacob works one finger inside, in and out, in and out, then adds a second, starting to stretch Pratt’s hole. After a couple of minutes, Pratt tells him that’s good, that’s enough. Get a fucking move on. What he really wants is Jacob’s cock. 

But Jacob persists, driving his fingers deeper, raking against Pratt’s prostate. He leans over to press lingering, wet kisses to Pratt’s spine, murmuring that he wants to watch Pratt come apart on just his fingers first.

Pratt groans into the mattress, bucking back onto Jacob’s thick fingers, “Add another,” he groans, “need more.”

“Greedy,” Jacob jokes, twisting his hand so he can slide a third, thick, calloused finger into Pratt. It might not be as long and as thick as Jacob’s cock, but the stretch still feels good. And despite the lack of girth or length, Jacob knows exactly how to press inside of him, how to make Pratt’s cock leak against the sheets.

Pratt’s not sure he can come like this, even with the brilliant things Jacob is doing with his fingers in his hole. He’s used his cock being stimulated directly. And even though he was able to come during their hunting trip by grinding against the ground, the bed is softer, provides less friction.

“I know you can do it, Peaches,” Jacob rumbles at his back, pressing his weight down against Pratt’s smaller body. “Know you can come for me.”

Pratt tenses up, Jacob’s voice going directly to his dick. He pushes back on three fingers, urging Jacob to go deeper, harder, until his fingers are pistoning sharply in and out, slapping into him. Jacob blankets Pratt’s back with his body, looping his other arm around Pratt’s chest and hoisting him up just a little so he can reach around to pinch one of Pratt’s nipples harshly. And that’s the extra stimulation Pratt needs to finally crest, coming hard enough for his vision to white out and he makes a mess of the comforter.

But Jacob doesn’t stop, even though Pratt is loose and overstimulated. Pratt reaches back to grab Jacob’s wrist, trying to get him to pull his fingers out.

“Trust me,” Jacob whispers, kissing against Pratt’s shoulder. “It’ll be good.”

Right now it doesn’t feel good. He’s just come and the intrusion in his ass feels uncomfortable rather than pleasurable. But Jacob rubs against his prostate slowly. And though he can’t get hard again quite yet, Pratt’s stomach starts to warm.

Unexpectedly, he leaks again, fluid dripping from the head of his flaccid dick. Oh fuck, the sensation is so weird. But he just goes with it, his hands curled tightly in the sheets. He knows he’s shaking, but Jacob doesn’t relent, milking him until he starts to get hard again.

“Fuck,” Pratt groans, burying his face against the pillow.

“Mm, you still want my cock, or are you all tired out?” Jacob asks, his tone just on the edge of mocking, slowly dragging his fingers back out while Pratt decides.

Pratt has just enough space to roll onto his back. Spreading his legs, he wraps them around Jacob’s hips, pulling him towards him with a jolt. “I want it.” The sheets against his back are sticky with his own come. God, he feels disgusting.

Jacob rubs his cock between Pratt’s cheeks, collecting the excess lube on the head and smearing it with his hand down to the base. “Like this?” Jacob asks, pressing the head of his cock against Pratt’s rim, slick, but feels different than the other times. Pratt realizes that Jacob’s bare.

Maybe Pratt is supposed to be the one to say ‘no.’ 

But he trusts Jacob, doesn’t he? Jacob says there’s no one else, said it months ago. And Jacob wouldn’t hurt him. Jacob cares about him.

Right?

“Yeah,” Pratt says, “like this.”

Jacob slides into him easily, all the work with his fingers leaving Pratt loose enough that the stretch he usually feels at first is mostly absent. Taking it slow, Jacob works himself deep inside, throwing kisses against Pratt’s face, his neck, his chest.

Pratt wraps his legs around Jacob’s waist, holding them tightly together. Like this, Jacob can’t pull all the way out, his thrusts shallow, but Pratt feels every gentle movement as their bodies rock together.

God. 

Oh god. 

He wants Jacob so fucking badly. Not just in this moment, but always. This thing between them, unspoken still. Maybe always. But it feels so big, so consuming. It doesn’t matter if it’s a secret, if Pratt can never tell anyone. He wants this, Jacob holding him close, even if they’re hundreds of miles from home.

Grabbing onto Jacob’s hair, Pratt can’t believe he’s this close again. That he’s going to come a second time with Jacob inside him so soon after his last release. Jacob’s dog tags scratch between their bodies, leaving little intents in Pratt’s chest where they start to press in. And Jacob’s eyes are so bright and blue in the yellowed light of the room.

“I’m going to come in you,” Jacob strokes his hair, damp with sweat.

Pratt hums in the affirmative, his eyes drifting closed.

He almost doesn’t feel it. The way that Jacob’s body tenses above him is more dramatic than his release. But as the seconds elapse, Pratt feels it, he thinks, he’s not sure, yeah, Jacob filling him up, slicking his insides with his come.

“Oh god,” Pratt groans, Jacob stroking him until he comes again between their bodies.

“Perfect,” Jacob kisses him, “good.”

Pratt feels absolutely soaked between his thighs when Jacob pulls out, a mixture of sweat, his come, and Jacob’s. 

It’s well past dinner time by now and Pratt is starving. But they both need showers before they’ll be presentable. 

Jacob though, has other ideas, turning Pratt back onto his stomach, he shoves two fingers into Pratt’s loosened ass.

“God, fuck!” Pratt curses, pounding his fist against the mattress and trying to twist away. He cannot fucking come again. 

Mercifully, Jacob pulls his fingers out. But the lack of contact is short lived, as Jacob bends over to lick at Pratt’s well-used hole. And god, that’s fucking disgusting. And so fucking hot. Jacob laps at him for a couple of minutes, his tongue plush and soft against Pratt’s sore hole. Pratt still feels himself trying to scramble away at first, too over-sensitive, but he forces himself to stay still.

Once Jacob is seemingly satisfied, he pulls back, wiping his mouth with his hand. He flops down next to Pratt, playing with the hair tucked behind his ear, “We should get cleaned up, have to eat.”

“Yeah,” Pratt says, stretching just enough to peck at Jacob’s lips. He’s largely unconcerned with where they’ve been, “I’m not sure I can move, but you’re right.”

They lay in bed together another twenty minutes, limbs and lips pressed together in the quiet of their room. Jacob tells Pratt he should go ahead and shower first. But before Pratt can get up, Jacob runs his hand once more between Pratt’s messy thighs.

Pratt is utilitarian in the shower, trying to clean himself up and out as much as he can manage. The ache of everything they’ve done so far clinging to his bones. He kind of maybe hopes that Jacob will be able to go another round in the morning, though. But his meeting to pick up the supplies for Joseph is pretty early. And the plan is to drive back to Hope County directly after.

They swap places, Jacob climbing into the shower while Pratt gets dressed. Jacob said they’re going to eat, but that could mean anything. Taking the risk of looking like a fool, Pratt puts on his button down, but doesn’t bother with the dress slacks. He can make up something about having to do laundry if Jacob teases him about the shirt. At the last second, he decides to tie his hair up.

Jacob comes out of the bathroom still slightly damp, skin red from the heat of the shower, and totally naked. He takes one look at Pratt and says, “You look good,” before pulling his clothes out of his backpack. As he’s dressing, he says there’s a diner just across the street. Nothing fancy, but the food is probably fine. 

They walk over, not touching, but side by side. Pratt opens the diner door, Jacob reaching above his head to hold it open while Pratt ducks under and heads inside. Jacob follows him.

“Should we just order something and—“ Pratt gives Jacob a way out, in case he doesn’t want to be seen with him, even here.

Jacob looks undoubtedly nervous, his shoulders slightly hunched in a way Pratt has never seen before, “No, let’s just eat.”

The hostess seats them at a booth. It’s Monday evening and the place isn’t that crowded. There are a bunch of college kids though, making more noise than their numbers, practically shouting each other down from across the table.

The diner has a liquor license and Pratt orders a Miller Lite; there aren’t that many options. Jacob tells the waitress that he’ll take the same.

Over dinner, Jacob asks him more about work. He still doesn’t know about the incident with Rogers, unless he’s heard it from someone else, but now isn’t the time to dredge up that particular incident. Pratt tells him that honestly, things have been slow the last couple of weeks. But it’s sure to pick up again with the thaw. Apparently people go a little nutty when they can finally go outside again.

Pratt expects Jacob to want to book it out of dinner as soon as possible. But he orders cake and says Pratt should get dessert too.

It’s late by the time they’re finished. Pratt’s a little buzzed over the three beers he had a dinner. Not drunk by a long shot, but warm and happy with Jacob at his side. Jacob brushes his fingers against the back of Pratt’s hand. A little gesture that says so much. Pratt grabs Jacob’s fingers, as subtlety as he can and squeezes, before letting go again.

They get ready for bed, Pratt stripping down to his boxers. The comforter is pretty well soiled from their earlier activities. Jacob pulls it off the bed and tosses it in the corner of the room, half on the chair, half on the floor. There’s still the top sheet and another blanket that are mostly clean, so they should be plenty warm.

Jacob leaves his shirt on and Pratt doesn’t press him about it. However he’s most comfortable sleeping is fine. Pratt turns out the light then shuffles into bed, Jacob opening up his body position and inviting Pratt to curl up against his chest with Pratt’s head resting on Jacob’s arm. Jacob runs his hand down Pratt’s back, then back up, lulling him to sleep.

The first time Pratt wakes in the night, he doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t even fully rouse, but he feels Jacob pull away. That’s understandable, Pratt can’t rest his weight on Jacob’s arm the whole night. Next to him, Jacob readjusts, and Pratt falls back to sleep.

The second time Pratt wakes up, he has the distinct feeling that Jacob is awake. Opening his eyes, it takes a second for his vision to adjust to the darkness. Next to him, Jacob is sitting up, his back against the headrest, and hands folded in his lap. Groggy, Pratt tells Jacob to lie back down, not even thinking through why Jacob might be awake at first.

“Is something wrong?” Pratt asks, pushing himself up onto his elbow.

“No,” Jacob says, his voice exhausted, “go back to sleep, Staci.”

It’s the first time Jacob has ever used his first name. It’s almost always “Peaches,” and sometimes “Pratt,” on the rare occasion they might possibly be within earshot of other people. But never “Staci.”

“Jacob…”

“It’s okay,” he leans over to kiss into Pratt’s hair, rucking up the back of it with his hand,“just having trouble sleeping, it all. Don’t worry about it.”

Pratt eventually falls back to sleep, fairly certain that Jacob doesn’t.

In the morning, he wakes again, to Jacob moving around the room. When Jacob notices him stirring, he comes to the bedside, sitting down by Pratt’s legs and telling him he doesn’t have to get up yet.

“I’m going to pick up the shipment. When I get back, we’ll check out and get breakfast on the road.”

Pratt had every intention of going with Jacob on his errand, but getting another hour of sleep sounds really good. He curls up in the blankets and drifts back asleep until he hears the key in the lock again. Jacob coming back.

It doesn’t take more than five minutes to pack up their things. But then it takes another twenty minutes for Jacob to pin him down against the mattress and suck him off. He’s cursing, pulling Jacob’s hair the whole time. Calling him a bastard and a cheat, taking Pratt by surprise like that. Jacob grins with his mouth still wrapped around Pratt’s dick, working his throat muscles until Pratt can’t hold on anymore.

Climbing back up the bed, Jacob kisses him, forcing most some of Pratt’s own come back into his mouth. Jacob whispers for him to “Swallow,” rubbing Pratt’s adam’s apple with his calloused thumb.

“You’re the worst,” Pratt groans, his mouth still tasting bitter.

“Come on, I’ll get you coffee and a sandwich. You won’t be able to taste it after that,” Jacob offers up his hand to help pull Pratt to his feet.

The shipment that Jacob picked up is packed in three big, wooden crates, strapped down securely in the truck bed. Pratt can’t tell what it is that’s inside.


	9. Chapter 9

Jacob’s birthday is in the middle of February. Pratt doesn’t expect to see him on the day, or even sometime that week, but still wants to buy him a gift. January is already rapidly coming to a close, and he doesn’t have much time.

Though, if he is honest with himself, he has no idea what Jacob might like to receive. As far as Pratt knows, Jacob is exceedingly practical. He’s never seen where Jacob lives, but he has seen the way he packs his bags. Everything is utilitarian, with a purpose.

Pratt remembers from their hunting trip that Jacob’s arrow quiver is particularly worn. He’d given Pratt the same one, but new, as part of the archery supplies he got just after Christmas. Pratt thinks maybe just replacing his existing quiver might be appreciated. Or maybe looking for something slightly better. 

He’s able to find the quiver pretty easily by searching the brand name and number on the one Jacob gave him. If Pratt knew more about archery, he might be more tempted to get Jacob a new bow. There are a lot of interesting options that pop up as suggestions in the sidebar. But Pratt doesn’t even know what he’d be looking for in a purchase. A quiver seems like a safer bet.

Scrolling the results, he realizes he’s not looking at much else other than aesthetics, and he comes around on thinking the quiver is a dumb idea. He could try getting Jacob a new pack though. Even if it doesn’t replace his old one, he might have occasion to use it.

It’s totally not necessary, but Pratt goes to the website of one of those companies that lets you build custom bags for about two hundred dollars a pop. He spends an inordinate amount of time on fabric choices, settling on a combination of grays and greens that he thinks that Jacob might like, given his choice in clothing. It’s a messenger bag, rather than a backpack. And again, he’s not certain that Jacob will actually use it. But he’s hoping at least that Jacob will appreciate the effort Pratt’s put in, making a sincere go at getting something that he might find useful.

—

Joey plops herself down on the edge of Pratt’s desk, grabbing one of his pens from the coffee cup on one corner and fidgeting with the cap. Popping it off and back on, off and on, off and on, while she talks.

“I got this party coming up, in Missoula on the 23rd. You should come with me,” she leaves the cap off this time, running the roller ball against the back of her hand until the ink comes out. She starts drawing these perfectly straight notches over her knuckles.

Pratt points out, “I work the 24th.” After taking those two days off to go to Billings with Jacob, he doesn’t have any vacation left in January.

“Not until 2pm, you don’t. That’ll give us plenty of time to get back in the morning. It’ll be great. We don’t get out enough.”

That’s true. There really isn’t much in the way of partying in Hope County, at least not in their age group. Pratt agrees to go and Joey relinquishes her death grip on the pen, tossing it back into the cup, the cap long gone. Rolled under one of the desks or something.

Joey’s got to go out on patrol with Gilmore now. But she says she’ll pick Pratt up at four on the 23rd.

—

Joey gets to Silverlake with a backseat full of liquor. Lower taxes in Hope than Missoula, she explains. That also means the party can’t start without them, so they better get a move on if they expect to be there before a riot breaks out at the house.

Once the Spring comes, they’ll be too busy for trips like this. Too tired from actually having to do shit at work, instead of waiting around to get calls about dumbfucks who don’t know how to drive on the ice. When Hope finally thaws out, everyone goes a little crazy the first few weeks.

In the couple of hours it takes them to drive out to Missoula, they listen to Joey’s playlist on her Android, Pratt vetoing every fifth or so track out of principle. Joey catches onto him pretty fast, and from then on he has to justify his objections in detail before skipping to the next song. In the lull of slower tracks, they talk shit about the other deputies. Mostly Davies.

“You’re getting your pilot’s license, right?” Joey asks.

“Yeah,” Pratt explains, “I gotta go to Fergus County in March for a course, then again in April or May to take the test.” Pratt won’t even quite be off of probation yet, but he’s looking forward to having a leg up on Davies in particular. “I bet Whitehorse would let you take it too.”

“Nah,” Joey brushes off the idea, “as far as I’m concerned, flying would just be one more responsibility the department might saddle me with. You’re more than welcome to it. Besides,” of course Joey had something else up her sleeve, “I’m working on Whitehorse to get a K9.”

“You want a dog?”

“Hell Yeah I want a dog. It’d be fucking awesome.”

They finally pull up to a single story, ranch-style house on the outskirts of Missoula proper, surrounded by a well-kept, if spartan yard. Pratt’s been briefed that the house belongs to Joey’s girlfriend, Caroline. There are two other roommates, George and Annette, and all of them are ‘cool.’ Which Pratt assumes means okay with Joey and Caroline as a couple. 

Pratt told Joey during her little rundown ‘that’s nice.’ But he trusts Joey not to out him if he doesn’t say anything himself. It’s not like he exactly ever confirmed anything about his sexuality to Joey, anyway. She just assumed.

Pulling the passenger seat in Joey’s Jeep forward so that he can get into the back, Pratt grabs the two of the beer cases of 24 while Joey gets the box full of harder stuff. At the front door, she shifts the box so she can jab at the doorbell. Pratt hears it buzz inside.

A man who looks to be around thirty, with prematurely graying hair and old pockmarks from teenage acne, opens the door for them. Joey chirps out, “hi George!” and shoves the box of liquor into his arms. “Show Pratt where to put the beers,” she gestures back to him. And thank God, she shows some discretion, in not calling him ‘Staci’ off the bat.

George smiles at him, nodding in the direction of the kitchen before leading the way there. They’ve already got ice coolers set up for the drinks, they were just waiting for the booze to arrive.

A woman, Annette, breezes in, her light hair swept up in a giant bun on the top of her head. Despite the fact it’s still January, she’s wearing tiny little running shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Pratt has no idea how she’s not freezing. Well, she might be, from the state of her dark nipples showing through the thin fabric of her tee.

“I’ll put shit away,” Annette says, grabbing the unopened beers from Pratt’s hands before shoving them back in his direction, “Wait, take one of those to Joey. But you’re a guest. George and I will pack the drinks.”

The beers have twist off caps, and Pratt tosses the caps into the open trash can as he sets off to find Joey. The place is more packed than Pratt expected. A couple of dozen people crammed into the little three-bedroom house. Everyone in attendance ranges from early twenties to late thirties, at least as far as Pratt can tell.

“Hey!” Joey calls out to him from the other end of the living room, gesturing for him to come over. She’s sitting on the armrest of the faded brown couch, a woman with short, bleached hair buzzed on the sides sitting next to her on the cushion, one arm thrown around Joey’s hips, hand resting against her thigh.

Pratt hands Joey a beer and she introduces him to Caroline. Caroline stands up to shake his hand. She’s short and heavy set, with a huge smile. She tells Pratt that she’s heard a lot about him and Pratt says that he’s glad to finally meet her. Truthfully, he doesn’t know much about her, other than her name. He’s never bothered to ask Joey about her, too worried that he’ll let something slip about Jacob in conversation.

The three of them talk for a bit. Caroline is a geologist, working with a construction firm in Missoula and the surrounding county. She’s warm and welcoming and honestly kind of perfect for Joey, who, despite her fondness for Pratt, can come across as a bit callous to people she doesn’t like. Joey seems...softer, sweeter around Caroline. Not a different person, but a kinder version of herself. More relaxed.

Pratt finishes off his third beer, each of them taking turns to go retrieve them from the kitchen, and Joey shoos him away, telling him he should go socialize. Just introduce himself to people. That’s the whole point of getting drunk, right? Lowered inhibitions. Pratt says he knows how parties work. He did go to college after all.

He’s pleasantly buzzed, and introducing himself as ‘Joey Hudson’s friend,’ gives him an in when it comes to most conversations. Sometimes the other party goers are trying to dig up dirt on her, things that they might be able to hold over her head later. Unsurprisingly, she can be ruthless in her critiques. It’s like Joey has this whole life in Missoula that Pratt didn’t know anything about.

After about an hour, Joey grabs him by the arm, pulling him away from the woman he’s talking to, with stars tattooed just under her hairline, curling from her forehead just down to her ear. Pratt tries to wave goodbye as he’s dragged, but she doesn’t seem that put out.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Joey says hauling him back out into the dining room.

Joey introduces him to Matthew, a software developer who works for the same firm as Caroline. And Pratt knows immediately that Joey is trying to set him up.

Matthew is a good-looking guy, probably just thirty, with sandy-brown hair, pale blue eyes, and glasses, “I’ve never found a pair I like,” Matthew explains, “but if I take them off, I can’t see anything.” He’s taller than Pratt by a couple inches, and at least through his clothing, he looks fairly athletic.

Pratt doesn’t want to be rude, and Matthew is a cool enough guy to talk to. His job is really mundane. Modern construction equipment is full of all sorts of electronics, a lot of which needs customized programming depending on the job. While the systems themselves are proprietary, he mostly communicates what the firm needs to the manufacturer, and troubleshoots when things go wrong.

Pratt shares a couple of stories that he’s told half a dozen times already tonight. He stays away from deaths, animal or otherwise. But there’s plenty of dumb shit people get up to in the woods. Matthew asks him if he wants another beer and Pratt says he’ll come to the kitchen with him.

Fresh beers in hand, they end up sitting on the porch swing out back on the enclosed deck. The space heater isn’t on, but it’s still warmer than outside. Pratt can see why Joey thought he might like Matthew. He’s smart and polite, but with a little mean streak he can’t quite conceal with the amount of liquor that he’s downed already. Always sneaking in shit about the incompetence of the consultant he works with at the equipment firm.

By midnight, Matthew’s designated driver sticks her head out onto the deck, telling Matthew he’s gotta get his ass in gear, or she’s leaving him behind. Matthew smiles at Pratt sheepishly, saying it was good talking to him. And thank fucking god, he seems to recognize that as nice as their conversation was, there’s no chemistry there.

Once Matthew is gone, Pratt lays down, taking up the whole bench for himself. He plays on his phone for awhile and about twenty minutes later, Joey reappears. She picks up both his legs so she can sit down on the swing, putting Pratt’s feet down on her lap.

“Sooo,” she slurs, “how did things go with Matthew?”

“He’s a cool guy.”

“Yeah?” she perks up, “Gonna call him?”

“I don’t think so,” Pratt admits, “Er, like I said, he’s cool. But I’m not interested.”

Joey pouts, playing with the laces on Pratt’s sneakers, “Okay, so then, what’s your type? There are totally other options. I couldn’t expect to get it right on the first try.”

Pratt groans, “I don’t need you setting me up, Joey. Though thanks for the concern.”

“Listen just...at least dating might help with this whole Caleb thing, right? I’m not saying I’m trying to find you a husband. But just someone you might have fun with.”

“I have plenty of fun--”

“Oh yeah?” she sounds way too curious.

“--on my own. Really, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I just want you to be happy, Staci. And I know the options can’t be that good in Hope County.”

Pratt rolls his eyes, “I’m bi, I could find a good woman, settle down. Make some babies.”

“Is that what you want?” Joey asks.

“Fucking christ, Joey, no. I’m twenty-two.” 

“Okay,” she concedes, “point taken. But you might still let me parade some guys in front of you. You know, for fun.”

“I’ll let you know if I change my mind, okay?” he hopes that will get her to drop the subject. For now, at least.

—

Jacob calls him a couple of days before his birthday, telling Pratt he wants to see him on the 16th. Pratt realizes then that Jacob might not even know that he knows when Jacob’s birthday falls. But he’s known it since he and Davies pulled Jacob over for speeding last summer.

“I have work that day,” Pratt explains.

“When do you finish?”

“At eight.”

“That’s fine,” Jacob says, “you can come after. St. Francis Veterans Center, you know it?”

That place has been in disrepair as long as Pratt’s been alive. He’s actually been there once, with Caleb. They tried to film some dumbshit video there to put on the internet when they were high school seniors. Both of them were fucking scared as hell though. But they’d never admit that to anyone. Pratt got some footage he captured in the courtyard after they hopped the fence still saved on his computer at his mom’s. Caleb heard something weird coming from inside the building and started screaming, running past Pratt and telling him to get the fuck out. They’d run back out the way they’d come, vowing to never speak about this again.

“Yeah, I know it…”

Jacob sighs, “Not trespassing. John bought the property.” Because of course he did. Apparently John Seed is on some sort of mission to buy the whole fucking county. But maybe that means the veterans center won’t be such a death trap anymore, if the Seeds are going to develop the property. Pratt has just been waiting for the day that kids as dumb as him and Caleb, but who are less easily spooked, turn up corpses in there.

“Okay, okay,” Pratt concedes, “I’ll come by after work.”

Jacob hangs up on him.

\--

Pratt doesn’t bother wrapping Jacob’s present. That seems too frivolous. But he takes it out of the shipping box, checking to make sure everything came out just like he ordered it, then tosses it into the passenger seat of his civic. 

He’d gone home to shower and change before heading to the Veterans Center, though that ate up another three-quarters of an hour. He just felt too sweaty and gross to go directly from work. He’d spent most of the morning in the cruiser and now, of all fucking things, the heat is stuck on full blast. February or not, that’s too fucking hot.

It’s almost ten pm by the time he makes it to the center. The tall, ornate iron gate locks him out. For years, the place was totally dark. But through the bars he can see floodlights in the courtyard. 

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he calls Jacob to let him in. Jacob doesn’t pick up his phone, but within a couple of minutes, Pratt sees him walking up to the gate, the white dog Pratt saw at Halloween following at his heels. Jacob’s got the key for the padlock in one hand, unlocking it and pulling out the chain with a heavy clink, clink, clink, to open up the gate. 

“Go on, park up in the courtyard, next to my truck,” he says, starting to lock back up after Pratt.

Pratt parks his car, getting out and leaning against the trunk, waiting for Jacob to walk back up the drive with his dog. He’s got Jacob’s gift in his hands, this way he can’t chicken out about giving it to him.

February has been unusually warm and Jacob is just dressed in jeans and his army jacket, no need for the heavier coat he needed in December and January. He looks good, tall and solid, in a way that makes Pratt’s stomach flip. Fuck, the novelty should have worn off by now.

As Jacob approaches, Pratt holds out the bag, telling him “Happy Birthday,” in case it isn’t clear.

Jacob’s movements are uncharacteristically awkward, taking the nylon bag from Pratt’s hands. He turns it over, checking both sides before unbuckling the latches, unzipping it, looking inside, trying out all the tiny zippers and velcro latches, before finally saying, “Thank you.”

Pratt feels like maybe he did alright. At least Jacob doesn’t say it’s garbage, or poorly made or anything. Jacob tucks it under one arm and gestures to the side door leading off the courtyard, telling Pratt they might as well go inside. He tells his dog to sit and stay outside.

The interior of the center is still in tragic disrepair. There’s garbage on the floor and graffiti on the walls, piles of rubble littering the corridors and a lot of the metal fixtures rusted through. Smells of piss and rot. The place still gives Pratt the fucking creeps, but Jacob leads them further down the hall, their path lit only by his flashlight.

“What does your brother want with this place?”

“‘S for me,” Jacob says. “Something to work on.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Pratt can’t even imagine the amount of labor it’s going to take to even safely get people inside, much less make the Center functional again in any capacity. 

“Lot of Joe’s congregation don’t have the skills they need. Never shot a gun, never dealt with wildlife, don’t know how to find their bearings if they get lost in the woods. Would be irresponsible not to prepare them for what they’ll encounter. Others are ex-military, got plenty of survival training. Can teach those who don’t know shit.”

Pratt figures that makes sense, kind of. In his job, he’s dealt with enough vacationers already who put themselves in danger because they think spending three weeks a year running around the Montana wilderness is equivalent to growing up here. He understands how the forest and the mountains can fuck you up. 

Pratt knows he’s a little soft compared to some of the other locals who more enthusiastically took to the lifestyle in their youths, while he was mostly looking for a way out. But he’s still twenty steps ahead of the tourists. If some of the people coming to Hope County because of Joseph’s church haven’t ever lived in rural conditions, they’ll get into trouble quickly. Jacob is just trying to prevent a disaster before it happens. 

“Gonna take a lot of work,” Pratt says, as if that isn’t obvious.

Jacob fits one of the keys in his ring into the office door. Inside, he has a small generator running, powering a heating unit on the floor and a lamp on the desk table. There’s a new, clean mattress on a wire bed frame in one corner in the room, and overall, the place is miles cleaner than the rest of the Center. The scent of bleach sticks to the walls and floors and as much as it stings, it’s better than the alternative.

“Mm, Joe is gonna send me some of his faithful to help with the repairs. He’s got plumbers and electricians and a handful of general laborers. It’ll take time. But we’ll get it done by summer.”

Summer is pretty ambitious, especially if Jacob is working with a skeleton crew. But Pratt doesn’t tell him that. Jacob puts the bag that Pratt gave him on the desk, then opens the top drawer, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Might as well enjoy the privacy while I can,” he jokes, lighting up.

“Someone trying to get you to quit?” Pratt asks.

Jacob rolls his eyes, “I ‘quit’ three years ago, Peaches.”

“Uh huh,” Pratt teases, sitting on the edge of the sharply made twin bed. It’ll be a tight fit, but at least it’s clean. 

“Workers are coming in day after tomorrow. But I figured, might as well show you where I’m staying, while I can.”

“Suppose I can’t come visit you, even if I do know where you live.”

“Too risky,” Jacob admits. But all of this seems beautifully intimate for the moment. Even if this is just Jacob’s temporary bedroom, it’s the closest Pratt has ever been to existing in Jacob’s world, instead of the other way around. 

Jacob finishes off his cigarette, putting it out on the ashtray on his desk. He climbs into bed with Pratt, pulling him down and holding him close against his chest. They don’t do anything for a long time, just laying in each other’s arms. Pratt is tired enough from work that he starts to drift asleep, fuzzy dreams of a white dress, stained by a red moon. He’s had this dream before, but with sharper teeth. He only wakes when Jacob moves next to him, sitting up with his back against the wall.

“Jacob, god,” he runs his hand down his face, “What time is it?”

“Just before midnight.”

“Oh, fuck,” Pratt rolls over onto his stomach, but is still too sleep-loose to get up. Jacob probably wants him gone.

But instead, Jacob climbs on top of him, spreading his knees on either side of Pratt’s legs. He wraps one arm around Pratt’s torso, hiking him up so he’s on his hands and knees. Breathing heavily against Pratt’s neck, Jacob deftly undoes his belt, slipping his hand into Pratt’s jeans.

“You wear your pants too fucking tight,” Jacob says, kissing at the back of Pratt’s neck.

“Like you don’t enjoy staring at my ass in them.”

Jacob chuckles, “I guess you got me there.”

Jacob works him until his fully hard, precome leaking over Jacob’s fist. Pratt feels teeth at the nape of his neck, scratching, but not hard enough to break the skin. Jacob rocks against him as he tries to bring Pratt off in his hand. Pratt warns him when he’s about to come, and Jacob flips him over onto his back, so that Pratt comes all over his stomach instead of on the bed.

“Asshole,” Pratt groans. But Jacob is already getting a washcloth to clean him up. There’s still come on his flannel though.

Pratt offers to blow him, dropping to his knees on the concrete floor. Jacob gives him one of his pillows to kneel on, before opening his fly. At first, Jacob just lets Pratt work, softly carding through his hair as Pratt bobs his head in Jacob’s lap. But as he gets close, he starts to pull, bucking into Pratt’s open mouth until he gags, holding him in place until spit runs down the sides of his stretched-wide lips.

“Pretty,” Jacob praises, thumbing at the wet corners of Pratt’s mouth. 

After Jacob comes, Pratt gets up to spit in the garbage can, his jeans still loose and open around his hips. Jacob tells him to come back, Pratt should spend the night. And god, he wants to stay, even though the bed is small and cramped. But he has a shift in the morning, he’ll have to shower, and he didn’t bring a uniform. In the end, he curls up next to Jacob, figuring he can just wake up early, setting an alarm on his phone so he can get home in time then make his work shift.

He doesn’t know how long Jacob lays with him, only that sometime later, he gets up, sits at his desk with the lamp off and flashlight on. Pratt doesn’t say anything about it. Just goes back to bed. By the time he wakes up to leave, Jacob is asleep, head resting in his folded arms on the desk.


	10. Chapter 10

Pratt spends most of March shuffling between Hope and Fergus Counties, completing his helicopter pilot’s training and certification. To get the flight time in, he takes the course, then a week back on shift, then another week with his instructor. He learns fast, taking quickly to the procedures and the steering. Chalks it up to playing video games, his hand-eye coordination is pretty good.

Jacob calls him once in that time, but their schedules don’t line up. Pratt is in Fergus, laying in his motel bed, and won’t be back until the end of the week. But Jacob stays on the phone with him for an hour, asking about what he’s learned. Pratt rattles off everything he’s already memorized from his training, tells Jacob about his flights so far. He honestly, really loves it. Even more than he thought he would. On the other end of the line, Jacob sounds pleased, humming that Pratt sounds like he’s having fun.

Pratt asks Jacob about the renovations on the Veterans Center and Jacob says they’re moving along, though slower than Jacob would like. Apparently there are structural problems with a lot of the interior walls. John is looking into contractors who might be able to handle the project. Jacob would rather get it done with a small group that he can trust, but doing so is looking increasingly unlikely.

As Pratt lays in his motel bed, phone pressed close and Jacob’s steady voice in his ear, he realizes how happy he really is. That despite everything, he’s happy to have this life.

—

In April, Pratt watches a man die in front of his eyes for the first time.

He’s back in Hope for two weeks straight, before his last trip out to Fergus to take his final pilot’s exam. With the arrival of Spring in full force, Whitehorse can’t afford to have him sit idle, so he goes back into the rotation with the other deputies.

Whitehorse sends him out with Joey on a call in the Henbane. Sounds like a junkie has got himself barricaded inside a cabin that doesn’t belong to him. The owners got back to the property after a morning of fishing, and the squatter has barricaded the door. They’re not sure if he’s armed or not. They’d taken their own firearms with them when they left in the morning, so there are no guns that they left inside the house. But they’re still worried about the guy being deranged.

Pratt and Hudson are more than physically capable to handle one strung-out addict, so Whitehorse doesn’t think much of sending them together. 

It’s just the perfect temperature that it doesn’t matter that none of the climate control options in the cruiser work. Both of them crack their windows, just to get the air circulating on the drive.

Once they make it almost to the cabin, Joey pulls over to the side of the road, well out of the sightline of the windows. The owners should be up closer to the property, but they don’t want to spook the perpetrator prematurely if they can avoid it.

The property owners are waiting for them, sitting in their lawn chairs on the porch, as unconcerned with the situation as Whitehorse was back at the station. Pratt asks them in a hushed voice for a run-down on what they know, which doesn’t include any new information; a single man inside the cabin who has barricaded the doors. Might be possible to get in through the windows, but, one of the owners gestures to himself and his obvious girth. And his wife is in no better condition to try and shimmy through a window.

“I guess asking him nicely to open up isn’t going to cut it,” Pratt sighs. “What I’m worried about is one of us tries to get in through the window and he takes the opportunity to stab us or some shit as we’re climbing in.”

“Then I guess we just have to move fast. You know, before the stabbing bit,” Joey shrugs.

This is a terrible idea, but it’s not like they’ve got any others.

“One of us could try keeping him talking?” Pratt suggests.

Joey rightfully counters, “I’m pretty sure the broken glass is going to be a giveaway…”

Pratt doesn’t want to be the one crawling in first. They fight for a minute about which is bulkier, Pratt’s shoulders or Joey’s tits. Pratt, for once, wins an argument, and Joey grumbles that Pratt better be ready to defend her if shit goes south.

They ask to borrow and axe from the shed and the property owners say they can use anything they like, the insurance will cover damages. Pratt readies the axe over the rear bedroom window. The plan is for him to smash it open quickly, and for Joey to jump inside and subdue the trespasser. 

On the count of three, Pratt starts swinging, and after three good smacks the glass is broke to shards. Joey’s quick about climbing in, and with no sign of the junkie, Pratt follows after. They both keep their tasers out, opening the bedroom door. As soon as they’ve got eyes on the guy, he’s got eyes on them. And he just starts fucking screaming. 

It’s all over so fast that Pratt doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s done. He doesn’t really hear the pistol go off, or the guy’s body hit the floor.

“Holy fucking shit,” Joey curses, lowering her taser.

With the dead man’s hand loose, the gun tumbles onto the floor.

Outside, the property owners are shouting, asking what’s going on. But Pratt and Joey just stand there, watching as brain matter and pooling blood congeal. 

“I wish I could say it gets easier…” Joey finally breaks the silence. And Pratt remembers, she’s been to war.

Pratt goes to the front window, opening it up and calmly as he can telling the owners that the intruder shot himself. They should look into booking a room for the night, as they need to call the coroner.

Joey unbars the door, without touching anything else. She wanders towards the direction of the cruiser to radio Whitehorse. They were the only two who saw what happened, and while ballistics or whatever will make it clear that he shot himself with his own gun, they shouldn’t be handling the evidence here anymore.

But Pratt goes back into the bedroom, staring at the corpse, its head a mess and shirt soaked through with blood. He tries to figure out if it feels any different about this than he did about that body he dug out of the snow.

He doesn't.

It doesn’t get any easier.

Pratt thinks something is wrong with him.

Because this part of the job isn’t very hard.

—

Jacob calls to congratulate him, the day he passes his final piloting test. Pratt is still in Fergus County, just getting into his car to drive back. He sits in the driver’s side, talking to Jacob for the next ten minutes about the trouble he’s having now with the work crew John has brought in to “help.” Pratt can’t help but laugh at how frustrated Jacob sounds, then promises he’s not making fun of him.

“Just never thought anyone could get to you, is all,” Pratt smiles, leaning over the steering wheel and looking out the windshield.

“You get to me, Peaches,” Jacob says, before huffing, “when’s your next day off?”

“I’ve got tomorrow, then not again until the 30th.”

“We should celebrate your license,” Jacob says. “Too many people here, though. The cabin is still empty.”

They arrange to meet early in the morning, around five. Though, if Jacob is still living at the Veterans Center, it’ll take him over an hour to cross the county.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jacob says, “I’ve got to pick up packages from John at the Ranch anyway.”

Jacob lets him go, telling him to stay safe on the drive back to Hope.

—

They celebrate with a bottle of warm white wine at the cabin, Pratt drinking through most of it himself while Jacob smokes. Offhandedly, Pratt asks him how his brother’s church is doing. Must be well, if they keep expanding?

“What he says speaks to people,” which always seems to be Jacob’s answer. “It’s not hard to see the world for what it is, and want something different.”

“And what do you want?” Pratt asks. He’s sprawled out across the couch with his head in Jacob’s lap. The wine has made him philosophical.

Jacob runs his fingers through Pratt’s messy hair, “I want to survive, I want the people under my care to be safe. Secure. I don’t want to be the cause of my own demise.”

“What about being happy?”

“What about it?” Jacob counters.

“What’s the use of surviving, if you can’t enjoy yourself?”

Jacob snickers, “Sometimes, you really do show your age, Peaches.”

“Aw come on,” he shoves at Jacob’s chest, “there are plenty of people your age who manage not to be jaded as fuck. So are you saying that you don’t care if you’re happy or not?”

“Being dead is worse than being sad.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

Jacob leans over to kiss him, shutting down that line of conversation. 

—

At the end of May, Pratt’s probation ends. He gets the pay raise that comes with it. And Joey says this is an occasion for a party.

“Oh, but getting my helicopter license wasn’t?” There’s only been one call so far for Pratt to actually fly the department chopper. But man, was the look on Davies’ face fucking worth it when they had to fly up to the F.A.N.G. Center to help put down that rabid wolf who somehow managed to break _into_ the Center.

Joey admits, “Okay, so maybe the party technically isn’t for you, and my friend was planning it anyway. But I just know you’re dying to get back to Missoula, right? Riiiiight?” she grins.

Pratt ends up caving, because a night getting wasted with a bunch of other 20-somethings doesn’t sound that awful, though he’d trade it for a couple of hours with Jacob in a heartbeat. He’s also realized though, that he doesn’t have to be at Jacob’s beck and call. Since January, they’ve found time to be together about once a month. And yeah, Pratt might want more than that. He might want things that Jacob is never going to be able to give him. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel _secure_. Jacob doesn’t want anyone but him. The last year is all the proof he needs.

“Okay, okay, but this isn’t an excuse to set me up with someone else,” he grumbles.

Joey says, hand on heart, it’s not.

—

The first week in June, they get a call from Yvette Peterson. Her daughter, Florence, has gone missing.

The Petersons live two doors down from Pratt’s mom, Yvette is a single mother too. But widowed, rather than her ex being a shitbag. Florence just graduated high school. She’s set to go to Billings in the fall.

Yvette last saw her daughter at the gas station. She was coming home from work and Florence told her she was on her way to meet up with friends, would probably be gone overnight. Yvette had been surprised, only because Florence hadn’t told her about her plans earlier. But otherwise, she’d been unconcerned.

That was two nights ago now. Florence’s phone goes straight to voicemail and Yvette has spoken to several of her friends. Maybe not all of them, but enough that someone should have known who she might have been going to visit that night.

They’re not detectives, they’re not really trained in investigations, but Whitehorse says they can at least do Yvette right by asking around. If they do a little legwork, they might come up with something concrete.

He sends Pratt and Gilmore to the gas station where Florence was last seen. Gilmore lets Pratt drive, but takes the lead talking to the clerk. The clerk remembers Yvette and Florence, talking in the snack aisle. Yvette cashed out first, then Florence a few minutes after. She bought a bag of Doritos and a bottle of water, which is pretty much what she always gets.

The station has one camera, aimed at the pumps. Gilmore asks if they can watch the recording from that night. The clerk says he doesn’t care, but he should check with the owner. Pratt buys a pack of gum while he calls his boss. He gives one stick to Gilmore.

With the okay from the owner, they scan through the security recording. They pretty much let it run until the hard drive is full, then write over the data every week. Luckily, there’s still a couple of days left before the manager would have wiped the footage.

The quality isn’t great, but they find Florence on the recording. As she heads back to her car, she talks to a man dressed in light colored clothing for a moment. She doesn’t look scared or concerned, seems to know him and be on good terms. Then she gets into her coupe and drives off. The man walks off camera.

Gilmore asks the clerk about the man in the video, presumably attached to the white van at the pump on the other side of the one Florence used.

“Did he come inside?” she asks.

The clerk says, “No. Probably went into the woods to piss or something. I don’t know him, but I think he was one of those guys with the weird church.”

“Eden’s Gate?” Pratt asks without thinking.

“Yeah, that one.”

Gilmore asks about getting a still from the video, so they might be able to track the man down. The clerk says that’s fine, but he doesn’t know how to do that with their system. Gilmore fiddles with the program a bit, but can’t quite find a way to take a screen capture. She tells Pratt to go get their camera from the car, they’ll just take a photograph of the screen.

On their way back to the cruiser, once they have the photos of the video, Gilmore asks Pratt what he knows about Eden’s Gate?

“I looked them up once,” Pratt admits, “last year. Joseph Seed’s from Georgia. And his brother John has bought up a bunch of property. Davies and I had to stop him from preaching in the Hollyhock parking lot on Halloween, that’s about it.”

“Hm,” she gets into the passenger side. “I’ve pulled over one of them, one of the Seeds, Jacob, maybe half a dozen times already on traffic violations. License always comes up in good standing, though.”

Pratt tries is best not to react to Jacob’s name, though he admits that he’s pulled over Jacob once as well. 

“Maybe we can try asking Joseph Seed about the man in the picture. If he’s one of Joseph’s parishioners, he might at least recognize the face.”

Pratt profoundly does _not_ want to visit Joseph Seed. But he can’t come up with a reasonable explanation fast enough to head off Gilmore at the pass.

Seed’s chapel is on the largest island in the lake. John has been trying to buy out the whole island, but the Holmes and a a couple other landowners are still holding out. Hoping for more money, maybe. 

Pratt’s silent on the drive over, running through possible scenarios.

What if Jacob is _there_? Probably unlikely. He’s still overseeing renovations at the Veterans Center. But Joseph is sure to tell Jacob that Pratt came to visit him. The brothers seem to share a lot of information (other than, of course, who they’re sleeping with). Pratt will just tell Jacob the truth about the visit. Joseph isn’t under suspicion here. They saw Florence get into her own car and drive away. All they’re trying to do is talk to someone who saw her after her mother, but before she disappeared.

The island is fairly densely wooded, although as they approach Jospeh’s chapel, the trees start to thin. It looks like they’ve been logging, clearing out space. There are a few mobile homes that have been settled down on the plot, forming a semicircle with the chapel. It hadn’t occurred to Pratt that Joseph had parishioners living on the property. But that explains why he doesn’t see more of them in town. It looks like they’re starting to install plumbing hook-ups for more units. 

He’s able to drive all the way up to the front of the church. Putting the car in park, he lets Gilmore take the lead. The door to the church is open, so they just walk inside.

There are about twenty long pews, split by a central aisle. The pulpit stands on a short platform at the front, with two flat panel monitors mounted on either side. The church is dark, and at first, Pratt thinks that it’s empty. But as they approach the dias, a door behind the platform opens.

Joseph Seed emerges, yellow-lensed sunglasses perched on the top of his head, light brown hair tied back. Pratt is really starting to wonder if the man owns any shirts, because he’s never managed to see him in one. What catches Pratt’s attention immediately, though, is the the new set of scars over his clavicle, partially cutting into the swallow on his right. SLOTH.

“Hello, Mr. Seed, hope we’re not intruding,” Gilmore has been a deputy for almost ten years now. She has a way of immediately putting people at ease. Part of it might be that other than the uniform, she looks like a typical wife and mother in her late thirties. Maybe people don’t always take her seriously. But Pratt has watched her enough to know that they should.

“No, no of course not,” Joseph smiles at her, then turns to Pratt. “What May I help you with, deputies?”

“We’re hoping to find one of your parishioners,” she explains. “The Peterson girl is missing, and it looks like she might have known him. Hoping he might know where she was headed that night.”

Joseph frowns, “Peterson? Florence?”

“That’s the one,” Gilmore readies the camera to show him the photograph. “Said she was going to visit a friend.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Joseph waves her off. “Florence Peterson is here. She is not lost.”

“Tell that to her mother,” Gilmore says, “literally. She’s worried sick. Mind if we talk to her?”

“Not at all,” Joseph leads them back out the church and towards the row of trailers.

Pratt would be lying if he didn’t find all of this a little weird. Technically nothing illegal is happening here. At least not as far as he can see. But Joseph Seed weirded him out the first time that they met, and this encounter is no different. Hard to tell though, if that’s because Joseph is genuinely a creep or it’s just Pratt freaking out internally because Pratt’s sucked his brother’s dick.

Joseph knocks on the trailer door, announcing himself as “the Father,” which, okay, maybe a little weird. Wouldn’t be weird if it were “Father Joseph,” but “the Father…”

Pratt hears footsteps coming from inside and a young man appears at the door, letting Joseph into the house. There’s hardly anything inside other than beds and people, watching the deputies owlishly from their bunks. Every available vertical space in the home has been commandeered for sleeping.

“Please fetch Florence,” Joseph tells the young man.

Pratt doesn’t recognize him. Might be one of the people Joseph brought with him from Georgia.

He reappears quickly with Florence in tow. She’s barefoot in a cream dress, her hair messily tied back. But she doesn’t look distressed or injured. When she sees the deputies, she lets out a gentle, “oh.”

“I’d like to talk to you alone, for a moment. If you’re comfortable with that?” Gilmore asks Florence.

Florence looks to Joseph first. When he nods, she says okay. Pratt is growing increasingly uncomfortable with all of this. But he doesn’t want to get in Gilmore’s way.

Gilmore takes her back into the bedroom, with Joseph, Pratt, and the other man waiting in the living room. 

“We’ve met before, Deputy,” Joseph looks at Pratt’s pocket, “Pratt.”

“We have, at the Hollyhock, on Halloween.”

“Yes,” he says, “you stood out.”

Pratt’s stomach lurches.

“Can’t say I get that much,” Pratt responds.

“Are you a religious man, Deputy Pratt?”

“Roman Catholic,” he answers automatically. Pratt’s had enough experience with Protestants trying to save his soul.

“And what do you think of the times we live in?”

Pratt shrugs, “We should be better to one another, but we won’t be.”

Joseph smiles at him, as if Pratt’s answers are pleasing.

Gilmore and Florence return from the bedroom. They can leave now. But before they do, Gilmore reminds Florence to call her mother. At least tell her what has happened.

Pratt doesn’t ask for details until they’re off the island.

“Damn girl doesn’t want to go to college. Would rather live at the church than get an education. Which is dumb as fucking rocks, but we can’t stop her. She’s an adult. Free to make her own decisions,” Gilmore explains. “She might be in love with that boy.”

Pratt doesn’t raise his concerns about Joseph. Gilmore is probably right in her assessment of the situation.

—

Jacob calls him the day after the incident with Florence. Joseph told him about the deputies visiting the church.

Pratt gives him the short version of what happened. That they went looking for Florence, found her, and everything is done and settled.

“Joe said you looked nervous.”

“With all due respect,” Pratt says, putting his xbox controller down on the center of his chest. “You know your brother is like, weird, right?”

Jacob laughs, “You might think so. But there are many who find him comforting.”

“You never want to talk shit about him, do you?”

“He helped me. I might not believe everything he does. But underneath all the spiritual bull, he’s got a point.”

“Right, right, the fall of civilization, fire and brimstone, I’m going to hell.”

“I never said that,” Jacob responds. “The devil would have to go through me, first.”

And oh, that’s strangely comforting, oddly sweet. Maybe as sweet as Jacob gets.

“Only because you’d be next in line. You’d just be heading him off at the pass.” Pratt’s queue dings and he sits up, getting ready for the next round. He keeps his phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder. 

“Maybe so,” Jacob concedes.

They make plans to go hiking in the mountains at the end of the month. Jacob teases him about dressing for the occasion. Pratt says after their last hunting trip, he’ll be sure not to wear anything that he plans on keeping in his wardrobe.

—

It’s already sweltering in the valley, but up in the mountains, the air is cooler. This time, they parked their cars in separate lots, and hiked to meet each other part way up the trail. Jacob veers off the marked path before Pratt even reaches him, disappearing into the trees.

Pratt follows after, once he reaches the last place he spotted Jacob. Only then does he realize that this is another thing he’s supposed to learn. Jacob expects him to track him through the forest.

Which, of course, is easier said than done. For a 6’3” ginger, Jacob blends into the trees remarkably well. He should, by all accounts, leave footprints. The ground is soft and he’s over two hundred pounds. But by stepping carefully, he’s managed to avoid leaving obvious impressions on the forest floor.

Pratt does what he can, looking for snapped twigs on the ground, branches that look like they may have been bent. Every once in awhile, leaving a footprint behind was unavoidable, and the imprint of Jacob’s boots confirms that Pratt is on the right track. 

Little by little, Pratt is sure he’s gaining on Jacob, closing the gap. He winds his way through the trees, careful to follow the clues that will lead him to his victory. 

It takes him just over an hour, but he finds Jacob sitting on a fallen log. He’s carrying the messenger bag that Pratt bought him, slung over his shoulder and resting against his hip.

Pratt throws himself down on the log next to him, holding out his hand to take the water bottle Jacob just finished with. 

“You did well,” Jacob praises, “better than I expected.”

“You left clues on purpose,” Pratt says. He has no doubt that Jacob can be more subtle than he was.

Jacob shrugs his shoulders, “Maybe, but no more than could be expected from a human.”

“Oh? Now you’re saying your not human?”

“What do you think?” Jacob taps the toe of his boot against the outside of Pratt’s.

Handing the water bottle back, Pratt grins, “I think it’s time I get to test you.” He has an idea.

“Is that so?” Jacob smiles back at him.

Pratt jumps to his feet, “Catch me.”

He runs.

The objective here isn’t losing Jacob, isn’t covering his tracks. Jacob is undoubtedly a better tracker than Pratt will ever be. Instead, Pratt runs as fast as he can through the trees, relying on his speed and agility to give him an advantage over Jacob’s survival skills and longer stride. Though they’ve never raced against each other, he’s certain that he’s faster than Jacob, and can keep his speed up for miles longer, even with the obstacles the forest throws at him.

Leaves from low-hanging branches whip against Pratt’s cheeks, his boots crunching in the layer of leaves and brush that never manages to quite rot under the winter snows, just grows thicker every year until eventually a wildfire eats it all up. Blood pounds in Pratt’s ears as he races, knowing that Jacob is just behind him in pursuit.

It’s not the same as running on the pavement, but Pratt doesn’t expect it to be. His pace is slower than his usual runs, but still quick enough to stay out ahead of Jacob. He slows down a bit more, pacing himself, when he’s certain he has a lead that Jacob can’t close easily, letting Jacob tire himself out while Pratt holds another burst of speed in reserve. 

As quiet as Jacob moved through the woods on his little tracking test, he’s loud now, breathing heavily and debris crunching underfoot with his heavy gait. Eventually, Pratt is going to have to take pity on Jacob, like Jacob threw the odds for him. Or else Jacob is likely to give himself a heart attack trying to keep up. Pratt doesn’t doubt that Jacob would hurt himself, rather than admit defeat.

Pratt only strings him along for about a mile. He knows for a fact that at normal hiking speed, the distance wouldn’t be a problem for Jacob. But at pace, he’s already fallen so far behind. Arbitrarily, Pratt stops running, waiting for Jacob to catch up.

If he were crueler, Pratt might dart away at the last second, leaving Jacob in the dust. But instead he waits, arms folded over his chest. He’s already won this round. No need to rub it in.

Except he can’t help it, purring, “You did well,” when Jacob is within a few feet of him.

With a sudden show of strength, Jacob grabs him at the hips, dragging Pratt up onto his toes and slamming his back against the nearest tree, bark ripping through his tee. He kisses Pratt senseless, tongue invading Pratt’s mouth, their bodies so close together that Pratt feels Jacob’s sweat soaking through his shirt. Feels the pounding of his heart.

Pratt wraps his arms around Jacob’s shoulders deepening the kiss. He grabs hold of the back of Jacob’s hair, pulling until his partner groans into his wet-open mouth. Jacob grinds his knee in between Pratt’s legs, giving Pratt just enough rope to hang himself, pushing down on it and giving away that he’s hard.

“So, so good,” Jacob praises, “only you are this fucking _good_ ,” he kisses Pratt again with such a ferocity that Pratt keens.

Attacking Pratt’s neck, Jacob bites down hard enough Pratt thinks it might bruise. They’ll be no way to explain away teeth marks to Joey, who definitely will fucking ask. But Jacob pulls away without sucking, so maybe he has some sense left in him.

Jacob lowers him until his boots are firmly back on the ground. Dropping to his knees, Jacob takes Pratt’s jeans and boxers with him, letting them pool around Pratt’s knees.

And God, watching Jacob Seed kneeling with a cock in his mouth is still about the hottest fucking thing that Pratt has ever seen. Pratt grabs tight to Jacob’s hair, pulling him where he wants him while bucking his hips and shoving his cock down Jacob’s throat. Jacob, for all his fucking skill, _chokes_ on it. And Pratt is convinced he could come right there and then before Jacob squeezes his balls just sharply enough to bring him back from the edge.

“Thought you wanted my come, Jacob,” he twists his fist in Jacob’s hair. “Or is it that you want it all over your face?”

Jacob groans around his dick and Pratt catches the flash of Jacob’s hand, working his own cock between his thighs while he sucks Pratt off, cheeks hollowed and flushed red. He still tugging at Pratt’s balls, keeping him just short of his destination. But as much as Jacob seems to think he’s got this situation under control, he gets sloppy working his dick and Pratt can tell his attention is starting to split. The bob of his head more erratic, bright blue eyes fluttering closed, like Pratt’s cock is the best fucking thing he’s ever put in his mouth.

Pratt yanks at Jacob’s hair, hard enough to pull him off. He has to hurry to wrap his other hand around his dick, pumping a couple of times until he’s coming onto Jacob’s puffy lips, over his checks and into his beard.

Below him, Jacob’s come splatters over Pratt’s shins, staining his jeans and goddamnit. At least these weren’t nice ones. He keeps pulling at his dick until he’s empty, though the last of it comes out as a slow dribble, dripping into the dirt between Pratt’s boots.

Standing up, Jacob gets a bandana out of his pack and tries to get the worst of Pratt’s come off of his face and out of his hair. Pratt takes the square of fabric from him, cleaning up what Jacob missed. He almost regrets not telling Jacob to wear it back to the car. But there’s the chance he’ll run into someone and they really can’t take that risk.


	11. Chapter 11

Pratt sees his third dead body in July. Another fatal crash, almost as messy as the suicide over in the Henbane cabin. 

Okay, so, in actuality, the body of the crash victim is significantly more broken up than the junkie. But it’s probably qualitatively different, because it’s the steering column that went through his chest cavity, fucking old as shit cars without modern safety measures, and not his brain matter leaking out. There’s blood splattered across the windshield, but it almost looks like raspberry jam, thick and sweet.

There’s blood caked around the victim’s mouth. Might have seeped out when he tried to breathe, already drowning in his own fluids.

As horrific and Pratt knows the scene should be, he just feels numb. 

The EMTs arrive just after the deputies and even one of them recoils. They’re nothing if not professional though, and set about trying to figure out hot to extract the corpse from the driver’s side of the car.

There’s nothing really for Pratt or Davies to do here. There is no second car. Guy was probably drunk when he ran off the road, crashing into the steel and concrete traffic barrier at sixty miles and hour. Pulled his license, South Dakota issue, not a local. They’ll notify the next of kin, write up a report, wait for the coroner to confirm the guy was blasted drunk. And everything will be settled.

—

A week later, Whitehorse orders him to see a therapist.

“Is something wrong with my job performance?” Pratt has been good about showing up on time for his shifts. He does everything that’s asked of him. He doesn’t complain. Hasn’t thrown a fit about anything since New Years. He’s been on his best fucking behavior. 

“It would just be good for you to go,” Whitehorse remains evasive.

If Pratt can’t get out of this, he’ll just be the best fucking patient in the world. Which should be easy, because nothing is _wrong_ with him. He doesn’t know what Whitehorse’s problem is. But hey, this will give him two and a half hours of paid time off a week, because he has to drive to Flathead to see this guy.

The therapist he’s assigned in an older man in his 60s, silver hair all but gone. His office is way too much dark wood and leather posturing, for a practice run out of a strip mall storefront. 

Pratt has run through a dozen different answers to every permutation of every question the therapist might ask him. He even tried searching for ways to “pass a psych eval,” and read five different repetitive articles about it. 

There are two things this forced visit could reasonably be about: beating Rogers down months ago or the junkie suicide. Other than that, he can’t think about much else that would give Whitehorse pause.

Turns out, he wasn’t that far off the mark, when the doctor starts asking him about death and dying. Apparently, Pratt figures out from the leading questions, his problem is his lack of problems with dead bodies. He’s not Hudson, or Davies, or Froelich. He didn’t come out of the service. He’s not Gilmore who has been at this job for over a decade now. Pratt’s supposed to be a soft college boy with no experience dismantling broken flesh, breathing down bones and blood without batting an eye. 

When Pratt failed to respond at all, the other deputies worried.

He tells the doctor that he’s just not very emotive. Handles things in his own way, out of the other deputies’ line of sight. Pratt wouldn’t dare reveal to the therapist that he feels nothing when looking at a brutalized human body. Though right now, he’s got this sort of nervous anxiousness that he’s been discovered, a wolf in deer's clothing all along. That something is black and rotten inside of him, and for the first time, his camouflage is full of tattered holes.

Then the doctor shifts to asking about his parents, “What’s your father like?”

It takes all Pratt’s self control not to laugh in the guy’s face, “When you find him, let me know.”

The doctor asks about his mother next, and Pratt paints him a complimentary picture. She’s a fucking Saint. Confidential session or not, no stranger is ever getting him to say a goddamn word against his mother. 

As the hour ends, the doctor asks if Pratt thinks he’s too dependent on his mother? They spend more time together than is typical for a man his age. Pratt honestly thinks the guy is fucking delusional. If anything, his mother berates him for being too distant, and Pratt feels the guilt for that in his gut.

Pratt drives back to Hope, heading without detour to start his evening shift. Whitehorse asks him how it went, on his way out the door.

Pratt tells him about the mother comment. Frowning, Whitehorse says he doesn’t have to go back for a second session. Or, at least, he’ll find someone else for Pratt to talk to. Whitehorse’s mom might be white, but he has enough aunties on his dad’s side to understand.

—

Jacob calls, saying that he wants to take Pratt fishing.

“What, more ‘training?’” Pratt jokes. It’s two in the goddamn morning. But he was having trouble sleeping anyway.

“Just thought it might be nice, you brat. Do you know a place in the county that won’t be packed with tourists?” It’s July now and most of the good fishing spots are choked with outsiders, who have all decided to escape the confines of their city lives by going to the same damn place.

Pratt rolls from his side onto his back, phone pressed tightly to his ear. “Doesn’t your brother have any private lakes?” he means it as a joke. 

“Hm, a few,” Jacob responds.

“Oh shut the fuck up.”

“I’m still worried about out-of-towners wandering onto private land.”

“You’re basically a tourist,” Pratt rolls his eyes, “Okay, so I don’t know what your brother’s got. But in terms of fishing, everyone is gonna be further north, up in the mountains, at the lake, or the north side of the southern branch of the river. He got anything further south?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Pratt curses, “he’s really buying up the whole damn county. If you guys are rich as shit, why don’t you spoil me more?”

Jacob laughs, “Thought I spoiled you plenty, Peaches.”

Pratt’s smiling as he slips his free hand into his boxers, not really beating off, just touching himself while he listens to Jacob’s voice. “Could quit my job, start a new career as your private house boy.” He’s joking, of course. Though the idea of it is kind of hot, it’s just a stupid fantasy scenario to get off to.

The silent beat that passes between them makes Pratt worry that he’s pushed too far, shown too much of his perverted, porn-addled hand. That Jacob is weirded out by the comment. But then Jacob’s voice breaks through, heavy and somehow wet, “You’d like that, Peaches? On your hands and knees, naked, cept for my collar round your neck? Like property.”

Fucking, fuck fuck fuck, Pratt’s dick swells in his hand. He gives it a couple of strokes, figuring out how to respond, “You’d have to tame me first.”

Jacob hums in response, “Got a kennel big enough to hold you. Make you earn your way out.”

“How’d I do that?” Pratt asks, perilously close already, “wanna hear me beg for it?”

“Nah, Peaches, put your mouth to better use. Feed you my dick through the bars, have you get it good and wet before I go round to the other side.”

“God,” Pratt groans, closing his eyes and bucking his cock into his closed fist. “Think that would be enough to break me? I’m tougher than you think.”

“Don’t need to break ya Peaches, better to make you hungry for it.”

He doesn’t try to hide the noise he makes as he comes, letting Jacob hear what he fucking does to him. From the way Jacob is breathing, Pratt thinks he might be close too. He imagines Jacob in his dingy bedroom at the Veterans Center, door locked and lights out, but with Joseph’s faithful on the other side of the wall. Trying to keep quiet so they don’t hear him as he releases onto his stomach.

“That’s it,” Pratt rasps, “fill me up with it. Leave my sloppy hole dripping with your come. You’d have to make me your bitch...”

Jacob goes dead silent for a solid thirty seconds, and Pratt is pretty sure that’s his end. When Jacob breathes again, it’s a hurried gasp, as if he’s on the verge of drowning. Pratt smiles smugly to himself, proud he could work up Jacob into such a state. It’s only fair.

“I’ll look into somewhere to fish,” Jacob says, composed as ever, as if they haven’t both just jerked off to the idea of Pratt being kept and collared like a goddamn pet. “Call you when I know, but keep the day free.”

“Yeah, let me know.”

— 

Whitehorse comes into the bullpen frowning, then sighs when he sees his only two options are Pratt and Hudson. Pratt doesn’t get why he looks so frustrated with his choice in deputies, until they get their brief.

“I need you to ride out to the Drubman homestead,” he shakes his head, one hand holding his hat in place. “Wait, maybe I can get Gilmore on the radio. Save you kids the trouble.”

“No,” Joey hisses, her eyes bright, manically excited for the chance, “I want to fucking go. What’s this about?”

“Joey,” Whitehorse tries to get her to back down, “we can’t have an incident.”

“I won’t cause a scene, Sheriff, promise, cross my heart and hope to die,” it’s painfully obvious how giddy she really is.

“Joey,” Whitehorse warns again.

Pratt would just as soon not go. He knows why Joey is so keen on getting called up, and why Whitehorse so hesitant to let her go. Though he hasn’t been sent out to the Drubman property in his role as deputy, he’s suffered enough of Hurk Sr.’s snide remarks about “insert his preferred slur of the week for Mexicans here” to know that he and Joey will have a rough go of it.

“Fine,” Whitehorse huffs, “consider this a test. For both of you,” he looks from Joey to Pratt and back again. Pratt knows he’s referring to New Year’s. “Looks like that fool Drubman boy is back from whatever little adventure he’s been on for the last nine months. I don’t know where he was, nor do I care.”

Pratt snickers at the use of “boy,” Hurk Jr. is well into his forties now.

“But there were shots fired at the “Fort,” and a lot of screaming bloody murder. And we’re obliged to pay them a visit. So, please, just make sure that that man has not shot his son, so I can tell the neighbors.”

This is, technically, an easy dispatch. Other than dealing with Hurk Sr.

Joey and Pratt pile into the cruiser. They flip a coin to see who will drive and Pratt reluctantly gets into the passenger side. 

“What, I’ve been working with Davies the last week. You think you’re the only one he does that shit to?” She asks, pulling out of the department lot.

They can hear the commotion from the time they pull off the main road and onto the Drubman’s long, narrow drive. Sounds like Hurk Sr. cursing up a storm, while his son begs for forgiveness. But it’s never that simple, and every fifteen seconds, Hurk Jr. pokes the bear again, and a whole new round of shouting starts up.

The men in question are having their little discussion on the porch, Sr.’s back to the driveway and Jr. able to watch them approach in the cruiser. Jr.’s whole face lights up when he sees them, frantically waving both his arms above his head and shouting “Howdy Deputies!”

Hurk Jr. left the county late last summer without any preamble. So Pratt really hasn’t seen him much since he was in high school. Even back then, he and Caleb kind of thought he was pathetic. Some guy in his thirties, with no job and no prospects. Hanging around getting day drunk and buying beer for kids. Apparently, while they were in college, Hurk went on some sort of great adventure in the Pacific. Then, last summer, left for Asia. Pratt kind of thinks Hurk is lying though, and really he was just getting drunk in Spokane or something.

Though Pratt has to admit, looking at Hurk Jr. now, his skin sunburnt red and some weird jewelry around his neck, he looks like he’s been somewhere more exciting than Washington.

“Hola Amigos!” Jr. shouts as they get out of the cruiser. Pratt winces, but he doesn’t think Jr. means anything bad by it. He’s just an idiot. And has already proven way more tolerant than his father….though that’s not much of an achievement.

Hurk Sr, turns around sharply, his teeth bared, spittle already caught on his mustache and beard from yelling. Joey gives him the biggest, brightest smile that could be spotted as a fake from a mile away, asking what all this trouble is about? Pratt can tell that she’s trying to mimic Gilmore’s approach. They all know it’s effective, but it doesn’t have the same sort of impact when it comes from Joey, who is all iron nails and splintered wood to Gilmore’s soft, inviting, aural embrace.

“Was just telling my daddy here about what the Monkey-god wanted me to do! Seems we have a bit of a disagreement about the state of our immortal souls.”

Pratt’s had just about enough of people worrying about damnation for an entire lifetime. But they’re just here to get the Drubmans to fucking quiet down because their nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away and even she can hear this shit every time one of them sends a round off into the air.

“We’ve received a noise complaint,” Joey explains. Her voice remains calm for now. But Pratt can tell she’s just chomping at the bit, waiting for Hurk Sr. to fuck up bad enough that she has cause to cuff and drag him in. And God, Pratt wishes he weren’t here. He’s already on thin fucking ice from New Years.

The stench of alcohol is in the air, and as far as Pratt can tell, it’s wafting off both the Drubmans. He’s never known Hurk Jr. to be anything other than a friendly, touch-feely drunk though. His father is a different matter entirely.

“And it’s my god-given-fucking-right to be as loud as I please on my own property,” Hurk Sr. reaches for the pistol on his belt. Neither Pratt nor Joey flinch as he fires off another round towards the mountainside. He doesn’t have any neighbors to the east. So, yeah, he’s well within his rights to shoot a bunch of rocks.

“You’ll find that’s not the case, sir,” Joey’s particularly harsh with the honorific. A smile creeps at the corners of her mouth. She’s egging him on as subtlety as she can manage. Were Hurk Sr. sober, he might realize what Joey is doing. But as he is, he’s more concerned with puffing up his chest and brandishing his gun about while selecting a few choice words that would have gotten Pratt in a rage in high school. But he’s used to the racial epithets by now. They barely even register.

Technically, they can already bring him in on the verbal abuse of an officer. Because after he runs out of remarks about Joey and Pratt being “probably not even legals, much less fit to serve in law enforcement,” he goes in on Joey specifically because she should be at home “fat with some man’s spawn.” But Whitehorse will want a damn good reason for arresting him. The senior Drubman has powerful friends in the state, and they’ll never get a charge to stick when it’s just their word on some verbal abuse against his.

(Of course, it’s not like Whitehorse doesn’t understand. Doesn’t matter that he was a little blond boy with green eyes, all those years ago. Still got told in a hundred subtle ways that this wasn’t where he belonged. He understands well enough to know some battles are gonna grind you down until there’s nothing left.)

Trying to stir up trouble, Joey asks Hurk Jr. about his trip. He was gone a good long while. Bursting into a smile, he starts to ramble about his newest “tat buddy,” a man named Ajay with killer aim and “really pretty eyes, no homo, but cool if you are. I don’t judge.”

That sets his father off again, swinging his pistol around, drunk, with the safety off. At this rate, one of them is going to get actually shot, rather than just threatened. And Pratt was really looking forward to his fishing trip tomorrow.

“We get the point, Mr. Drubman,” Pratt interrupts, “You’re veee-ry aaa-ngry.” He enunciates like he’s speaking to a small child.

They get the result they need, Hurk Sr., training his pistol on Pratt and holding steady. His finger on the trigger. Joey grabs his arm, twisting sharply until he drops the gun. That alone could have been a disaster, had the gun gone off on impact. Pratt springs into action, scrambling for the pistol while Joey tries to subdue him enough to get the cuffs on. 

Hurk Jr. sounds like he’s hyperventilating, yelling that they should unhand his daddy. He didn’t mean anything by it. But the senior Drubman pulled a gun on a deputy and that’s enough to get him to sit in a cell overnight until his lawyer makes the drive out to the county. Whitehorse won’t be thrilled with this outcome. But Joey isn’t technically in the wrong here. Maybe they both provoked him a little, but he’s the one wasted drunk in the middle of the day waving a sidearm around in front of agents of the law.

Drubman tries to thrash out of Joey’s grip, and while he might have seventy pounds or more on her, she’s sober and has the training to keep assholes like him in line.

“You wanna add resisting arrest, sir?” Joey asks him, getting the cuffs from her waist. Drubman shows no sign of conceding and his son is still blabbering like a fool. Once Joey has the cuffs on him, she shoves him towards Pratt to drag him to the cruiser. While she’s capable of restraining him, getting him to the car in his current state might be an issue.

For some goddamn reason, Drubman decides that the best course of action is to go limp once he’s in Pratt’s hold, dropping all two-hundred pounds of himself onto the driveway like a sack of fucking lard. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Sir, you’re making this much harder than it needs to be,” Pratt points out to Drubman, writhing on the pavement. He’s trying frantically to break out of his cuffs, kicking around his legs and straining his shoulders until he shrieks. Claiming police brutality though neither Pratt nor Joey have touched in for a solid three minutes at this point. By mutual, silent agreement, they’re letting him tire himself out.

Hurk Jr.’s run off into the house, and Pratt can hear him calling his mother on the phone. Pratt doesn’t know Adelaide Drubman all that well, but from what little he’s witnessed, she might show up bearing gifts for him and Joey.

Another five minutes and Hurk Sr. has finally quit it with the yelling. Just sort of laying there and breathing heavily. Pratt figures that’s as good a time as any to hoist him up and drag him to the cruiser. Looping his hands underneath Drubman’s armpits, Pratt drags him to his feet. Another round of racist shit comes out of his mouth, but it’s not quite as loud as before. Pratt is really not looking forward to the drive back to the station and he’d rather just pop the guy in the head to knock him out.

Joey gets the cruiser door for him and Pratt tosses Drubman in the back. She tells him to go ahead and drive, she’s going to radio Whitehorse with the ‘good news.’

With the car door closed and Drubman spitting curses, Pratt doubts very much he can hear them talking.

“Oh yeah, he’s gonna be fucking thrilled, Joey.”

She beams at him, “Well, at least I’m happy!”

Whitehorse is less than amused as Pratt and Joey drag an only slightly more sober Hurk Sr. in for processing. Once he’s tossed in a holding cell to cool off, Whitehorse calls both of them into his office. Pratt has every intention of shifting as much of the blame as possible into Joey, even if he was the one to finally set Drubman off and get him to pull the gun.

“Do you two plan ways to give me another heart attack ahead of time, or just wing it in the moment?” Whitehorse grumbles.

“He did pull a gun on me…” Pratt offers.

“You realize that man is never going to see a lick of jail time, right? That we can’t actually lock people up for being racist cunts,” he sighs, sitting behind his desk. “This isn’t a battle you get to fight with your badges.”

Neither of them have a smartass response for that. But Joey points out, “That doesn’t mean we have to suffer his abuse when we’re sent to do our jobs.”

“No, that’s not what I’m telling you to do, Hudson. But do you really think a couple of hours in a holding cell is going to give that man his come to Jesus moment?”

Joey doesn’t have a response for that one.

“I’m not saying you just gotta accept it. I’m not saying you can’t be angry. I’m asking you to be smart. Because I know you are, Hudson.”

Pratt breathes a sigh of relief.

“And you,” Whitehorse turns his attention to the other deputy, “at least you kept your temper down. I guess. Now you two, get out of my sight before I find the energy for another lecture.”

Joey’s not one to run away with her tail between her legs, but she’ll walk out of the Sheriff’s office with her head held high, castigation be damned.

—

Jacob’s already told him where to park, and roughly how to reach the pond he’s scouted, about half a mile from the south bank. Pratt has to park on the north side of the river, then take a pedestrian bridge across into the open wilderness that butts up against the southern mountains. 

He’s brought his own fishing rod and tackle box, though the lures he has aren’t in the best of shape. The last time he went fishing was between sophomore and junior year, when Caleb came to Hope County for a week. They didn’t even spend much time fishing. Mostly, they got covertly drunk.

There’s a wire fence that surrounds the property, tin “keep out: private property” signs affixed at regular intervals with zip ties. Jacob told him on the phone just to jump the fence. The only gate is on the south-east corner of the plot, the furthest point from Pratt’s approach. 

He’s careful not to let his jeans get snagged on his way up and over and he lands safely on the other side. Pratt can’t remember who owned this before John bought it. There really was never any reason to mess around this far south. Nothing down here, really, and the roads, what few there are, are all in disrepair.

The first thing he spots is Jacob’s truck, pulled up all the way to the pond via the dirt access road to the property. Pratt picks up his pace to greet him, and Jacob smiles as he approaches.

The sun is just now breaking over the mountains, casting a hazy light over the pond. Pratt isn’t even sure there are fish in there. It’s so small, maybe the size of two big swimming pools, like the ones at university, secluded from the main waterways. But he’s not about to complain, as he sits down next to Jacob. This isn’t really about fishing, right?

“How’s work?” Jacob asks, reeling in nothing and working diligently to switch his lure.

“Got dressed down, again,” Pratt groans.

“Again?”

Pratt realizes now that he never told Jacob about New Year’s. Even if he didn’t, it was quite the topic of conversation around the county for a couple of weeks. Especially because of the earlier gossip about Pratt in the fall.

“After Rogers.”

“Mm, didn’t hear your side of that.”

Pratt admits, “Probably matches whatever you heard. I threw him to the ground, smashed his face in, hauled him off. I let him get to me.”

“Gotta defend yourself,” Jacob says, as if it’s something wise instead of obvious.

“Yeah well, this was more of the same er, well not quite.” Neither of them have had a bite on the line. “Hurk Sr. and his son, just a noise complaint. But it got out of hand,” he laughs to break the tension, “Joey has had it out for him for awhile. With good reason. Racist fucking bastard.”

“Your Sheriff expects you to put up with shit? Means the locals think they can fuck with you.” He pulls his cigarette pack from his front pocket, placing a stick into his mouth and lighting up. He leaves his rod unattended on the bank.

“It’s not that easy, Jacob. Whitehorse is looking at the big picture.”

“He’s eroding your authority in the county.”

“We’re supposed to serve the citizens of Hope, not terrorize them,” Pratt rolls his eyes. “But thanks for backing me up, means a lot to me.”

“You’ll lose more than you’ll win, but in the end, you’ll sleep better at night, knowing you fought the right battles.”

“You saying that from experience?” Pratt reaches over, taking Jacob’s cigarette from his mouth between two fingers. He’s never smoked more than casually, when he’s already drunk or high and people pass a pack around. He can’t think of a single instance where he’s ever paid for a cigarette himself. 

“Mmhm, I would have beat Rogers to a fucking pulp, in your position.”

Pratt takes a drag of Jacob’s cigarette, “You ever do it?” He can’t imagine anyone daring to say the same to Jacob, anyone ever thinking of saying it. Even if he’s been half as discrete he’s been with Pratt, there’s very little chance of anyone even suspecting. Part of Pratt thinks he’s made himself a target. Even if he’s not gay. He’s slender and kind of fussy, spends too much time on his grooming, talks too much. Not interested enough in the things he’s supposed to be. Hell, he’s not even sure Jacob getting caught coming into Pratt’s house is what set the rumors about him off. The whole county was just laying in wait.

“Sure, but not in a good long while.”

By mid-morning Pratt has caught a little bull trout, too tiny to be worth keeping. He tosses the fish back in, unconvinced that there are any others in the pond. Jacob says that’s ridiculous, there can’t be just one juvenile fish in a body of water and no others. That’s actually impossible.

“You don’t have any evidence to support your accusation that there there is more than one fish in this pond,” Pratt teases, reeling in and laying down in the grass to wait for lunch.

Predictably, Jacob has lunch covered, baked chicken over steamed spinach.

“So be honest, are you cooking these yourself or is one of Joseph’s followers unwittingly making box lunches for your secret gay lover?” Pratt jokes. He doesn’t really expect an answer. 

“Lover, huh? Is that what you are?” Jacob grins around his plastic fork.

“I hate to break this to you, Jacob, but I think we passed the fuck buddy stage awhile ago,” Pratt’s chest feels tight. He’s not supposed to be insecure about this anymore. Saying it out loud though feels different.

“Suppose so. I’d just call you, ‘mine.’”

That’s cheesy as hell and Pratt makes sure that Jacob sees him roll his eyes. “Yeah? And what does that make you?”

Jacob answers without hesitation, “Yours.”

Jacob has to get back to the Veterans Center. The renovations are finally complete after a long delay and he has the first batch of “recruits” starting next week. But before that, he needs to work with those parishioners who are planning to lead instruction.

He says he can at least drive Pratt back to the pedestrian bridge. From there, they’ll have to split up. Not just because they can’t be seen together, but the bride isn’t rated for motor traffic. He’ll have to drive further east to pick up the road.

They pack up their fishing gear and go to stick it into the back of the cab. Pratt’s half bent over, shoving his tackle box behind the passenger seat when Jacob comes up behind him, grabbing hold of his waist and pressing his chest against Pratt’s back.

Pratt ends up sprawled out across the back seat while Jacob blows him, the rear half-door open wide and his legs hanging out the cab. Jacob drags him back out once he’s come down his throat, holding Pratt steady while he’s still weak-kneed from the sudden force of his orgasm.

On the drive back to the bridge, the inside of the truck smells of sex. Pratt wonders what Jacob will do about that, if anything. Maybe the scent will dissipate on the drive back north. But Pratt can’t help but feel that he’s worked his way inside every fabric and fiber that Jacob owns.


	12. Chapter 12

His mother says she’s worried about him.

“I just want to see my baby happy,” she says. “I’m worried that you’re lonely…” she’s standing over the warm stove-top, even though the cooking has long since finished. Her hair tied up in a messy bun, stray curls creep down her neck, coming to brush against her ears.

Pratt is at her house for dinner. He has an overnight shift starting at nine. His current plan is to be so stuffed full of his mother’s starchy cooking, that making him leave the department office to go out on patrol would be a crime.

“I’m not lonely,” he says, “Joey and I hang out all the time.” Wincing, he realizes too late that he doesn’t really have other friends to list.

“Oh,” his mom perks up. “You always did admire her.”

Admire maybe isn’t quite the right word. Just the Hudsons let their eldest daughter get an airsoft rifle when she was was twelve and him and Caleb were definitely too young to be handling any sort of gun so they would watch her shoot, transfixed by how cool she seemed.

“We’re not dating, mom.” He’s got to head that one off at the pass. While it might be easier to let his mom believe he and Joey are together, he’s not about to lie in regards to that. He respects Joey too much. There are plenty of lies that can fit in alongside his dinner, this isn’t one of them.

His mama frowns, asking him if he wants a second helping? He does, but he can plate it himself. 

“I know you didn’t date much in college either….I just, I worry. It’s my job, as your mother, to worry.”

It’s true that Pratt has never brought anyone to meet her. Never given her a suggestion, even, that he’s been in a relationship. Because he hasn’t been. Slept with plenty of people, yeah. But not relationships. Not before Jacob. And so, she’s worried something is wrong with him.

Bringing someone home would worry her just as much. She’d get those little dents between her eyes. Because they’d never meet her exacting standards for her only child. They’d never be good enough.

Though, just thinking about introducing her to Jacob Seed is ridiculous enough that he has to tamp the idea down before he bursts into terrified laughter. 

“Don’t, don’t worry, I’m happy mom. I have a really good job, I have friends, I have you. And uh,” if he embarrasses her just enough she might just drop the subject. “I haven’t been a monk, mom. Just nothing built to last.”

There’s been no one but Jacob in a year.

—

Pratt knows before they pull the truck over that it’s not Jacob’s, though it’s the same make and model, bright white with cheap looking silver trim. Not his license plate, though. 

There are six men, dressed in cream, sitting in the truck bed, hands curled around the frame to try and keep steady, and four more in the cab, without their seatbelts on. 

Usually, the deputies are pretty lax when it comes to extra passengers crammed into a single vehicle. But with the speed that they were driving, it would only be a matter of time before the passengers in the back ended up smears on the pavement.

Froelich is the one driving. Pratt took the first half of the shift behind the wheel and he’s taking up the second. He blinks the lights twice when approaching, and the truck pulls over without a fuss. Froelich tells Pratt to go ahead and issue the citation for the speeding, let them go with a warning about the overcrowding. The last thing they need to do is treat them any different than those families with more kids than seatbelts. John Seed will try to fucking sue them. Again.

Pratt’s fine with that. He unhooks his seatbelt and gets out of the car. 

The church members are dead silent as Pratt approaches, which is more unnerving than anything else. Pratt gets to the driver side window and has to gesture for the driver to roll it down. He does, staring back at Pratt with an empty expression, lips just slightly parted and breathing noisily through his mouth.

“License,” Pratt says, holding out his hand, “do you know how fast you were going, sir?” They’ve got them on the gun at 82. 

The driver makes no gesture for his wallet. Doesn’t move his hands from the steering wheel. The passengers remain silent as well.

“License,” Pratt repeats, arching one eyebrow. This is already more trouble than it's worth. Should have just waited to clean up the bodies later.

“I have left the bonds and circumstance of this decayed nation behind, my friend.”

Pratt pinches the bridge of his nose, “Jesus fucking Christ.” He hasn’t had that much direct interaction with Joseph’s people. They mostly keep to themselves and out of trouble. “Do any of you have a valid driver’s license?” He’s going to have to arrest the driver, but maybe one of these schmucks can at least drive the truck back to the compound.

But nope, none of them breathe a word. Just stare back at Pratt with wide, glassy eyes, their attention never wavering.

“You,” he points to the driver, “out of the car because you’re being arrested. The rest of you can walk home or call for a ride. I don’t suppose you still believe in cell phones?”

No response.

“Great, good. I’d ask to use the phone at the clinic just up the road,” Pratt points in the general direction. “The doctor might let you use her landline.” They’ll probably end up impounding the truck. 

Surprisingly, none of the men fight back, quietly climbing out of the cab and bed. The driver waits to be cuffed, but Pratt says that’s not necessary, just don’t cause trouble on the way back to the station. 

The other parishioners walk off, but pointedly not in the direction of the clinic. Whatever, that’s fucking up to them. 

Froelich’s eyes are narrowed as Pratt walks the driver back to the cruiser. Pratt opens the rear door to let the driver climb in back. He waits until he’s in the passenger side, buckling up before explaining, “Not one of them could produce a license.”

Froelich cranes his neck to look back at their arrestee, “You have a valid license? Maybe left it at home?”

The man in back says nothing and reluctantly Froelich puts the car into drive.

—

The driver of the truck has posted bail by the time Pratt comes in for his next shift. Pratt wonders if John Seed was the one to get him out, but he’s not that worried either way. It’s a minor offense, as long as he shows up to his court date, and gets his goddamn license settled, it’s not the end of the world.

Out of curiosity, Pratt tries looking up Joseph Seed in the database. He already knows that John’s ID is still valid, so the family hasn’t given up entirely in maintaining legitimate documentation. “Joseph Seed” doesn’t come up in Montana, so he tries Georgia instead. He’d be what? 1974? That sounds about right.

That pings a result, 6’0”, 185, blue eyes. Expires in October. Come to think of it, he’s never seen Joseph drive, but then again, he’s only met the man twice. And the first time, Jacob was driving him.

If he remembers right, Jacob still had two years left on his Georgia ID, so he’s not worth looking up again. Still, it’s really fucking strange that in a truck carrying close to a dozen adult men, not one of them could produce identification.

—

“Your birthday is coming up, right?” Jacob asks. Pratt assumes he’s calling from the Veterans Center. His voice always echos a little bit when he does. Concrete walls with nothing on them to soften sound bouncing off.

“Yeah,” Pratt says, still holding onto his controller and trying to finish out his round. “Twenty-three.”

“Hell, Peaches, don’t remind me.”

“You’re the one who asked,” he points out. “Besides, I think you’re into it.”

“Nothing better than having an immature little bitch for a boyfriend, yeah.”

Fuck. Okay, so that’s the first time Jacob has tried to put a name to what they’re doing. Even though it was originally Pratt’s suggestion, he might like it better than “lover,” which, for all its implications sounds weirdly archaic. Jacob is hardly a ”boy,” but if he’s the one choosing that as a label...Pratt almost forgets that Jacob called him a little bitch.

“Yeah, that’s the part you like,” he counters. 

His round finally coming to an end, Pratt gets out of the queue. He hasn’t eaten yet, too wound up from work to stomach anything solid after he got home. His gut is feeling more settled now and he can at least make a sandwich or something. 

“Day of will be tough. I’ve got responsibilities here. But, the 19th?”

“I work the overnight,” Pratt says.

“Start at 8, right?”

Pratt hums in the affirmative, “Yeah.”

“Shit, alright. I can come in the morning, around three.”

Jacob hasn’t been to Silverlake since those rumors surfaced last year, “You sure?”

“Your reputation, Peaches, say the word and I’ll stay away.”

“No,” Pratt sighs, “I want you to come.” He hasn’t really heard much about himself lately. But that doesn’t mean the rumors won’t start back up if someone notices Jacob’s arrival. Fuck. “Wait, is there somewhere else we could go?”

“Can’t bring you here,” obviously not, “there’s a boathouse on the lake. John bought it two weeks ago.”

Pratt is surprised there’s anything left in Hope County to sell to John at this point. “No one move in yet?”

“Nah, it’s for my use. Gotta do some staging on the water. But I’ve been tied up here, haven’t gotten to check it out yet. Could do five am, if we’re going there.”

“No, three is better…”

Jacob explains to him where the boathouse is, then tells him to fucking eat dinner already.

—

There’s a light on in the boathouse, a dinghy tied up to the dock. The water is quiet enough that it doesn’t move, almost looks like it’s cast in resin. Pratt pulls his civic right up next to the house, cutting the engine and turning off his lights. There’s a little four-wheeler parked around the side, but no other car in sight.

He finds the door open, Jacob sprawled out on the couch in the tiny front room. There’s not much to it, the gray couch against one wall, a bar top with high-backed stools set across from that. There’s still jewel toned liquor bottles on display on the wall behind the bar. The property was probably just a place for the owner and his buddies to have a few drinks before going out on the lake.

Jacob is reading some paperback with the cover torn off, pages folded around until the brittle glue binding starts to break. When Pratt comes through the door, Jacob dog-ears his page and tosses the book in the direction of his bag.

Stretching out his arms, Jacob grabs Pratt around his legs. He drags Pratt towards him until Pratt ends up in his lap, thighs spread almost uncomfortably wide over Jacob’s hips. They kiss with the door unlocked, slightly ajar, spilling light into the dark morning. There was fog on the roads as Pratt drove around the lake.

Jacob shoves his hands under Pratt’s shirt, running his fingers along his spine. Every place they come in contact feels warm, throbbing. Pratt grinds himself against Jacob’s stomach and groans into the hollow of his mouth, rough beard scraping against Pratt’s second-day stubble.

“Got you something, since you said I should spoil you more,” Jacob teases.

Pratt rolls his eyes, he wasn’t serious about that.

Jacob slaps his ass playfully, telling Pratt to get off so he can grab his bag. Pratt flops down onto the couch, spreading his knees and taking up the space that Jacob vacates. The cushions are warm. Jacob must have been waiting here for awhile.

He wonders if Jacob ever really gets time to himself? Or if what few moments that aren’t clogged up with responsibilities pertaining to his brothers, he spends on Pratt? As much as Pratt pretty much always wants to spend more time with Jacob, he’s pretty sure he’d go nuts if he never got space to himself. Hell, he’s not even sure he could function properly in a more, uh, traditional dating situation. Or if the reason that this thing between them has worked so well is that they really get so little time together. 

Jacob takes a palm-sized cardboard box out of his bag. The top is held to the bottom with a rubber band and it looks like when the box itself was new it might have had gold or silver foil? Hard to tell now, almost all of it is worn off. Jacob shoves the box towards him, telling Pratt to open it. He rolls off the rubber band and absentmindedly wraps it around his wrist.

Okay, well, maybe Pratt really should seriously tell Jacob that he was not serious about the spoiling thing. Because the last fucking gift Pratt ever expected to get from him was _jewelry_. What the _hell_.

“What is it?” Pratt says dumbly, as if he can’t fucking see it’s a bracelet of dark, wooden beads. He slots three of his fingers through the center hole and stretches them, seeing if the band is elastic. It has a little give but not a whole lot, just enough that if Pratt sort of tucks his fingers and thumb together he’ll be able to slip it on.

Next to him on the couch, Jacob shrugs, “Didn’t know what else to get you.”

Pratt doubts that. Though Jacob doesn’t always bring it up, he kind of thinks that Pratt is a mess of a man. That he’s too petulant and bitchy and irresponsible and _soft_. There are probably a hundred things that Jacob could have gotten him in an effort to help him adult better. But, instead, he got Pratt something frivolous.

Pratt rolls the bracelet on. It sort of gets stuck around his knuckles, but one more firm push and it’s around his wrist, next to the rubberband. Jacob wraps his hand over top of the beads once it’s on, his palm circling around Pratt’s thin wrist. 

“Looks good on you,” Jacob says, like giving compliments comes easy to him.

Pratt slides down off the couch and onto his knees, pushing Jacob’s legs apart so that they fold around his form. The wood floor is hard, slightly uneven and creaking as Pratt shifts his weight, looping his arms underneath Jacob’s knees and pulling him towards the edge of the couch. Leaning forward, he runs his hands over the tops of Jacob’s thighs, creeping up towards his groin. Even through the thick denim, Pratt can feel how hot Jacob’s skin is, warmth rising to the surface.

He mouths over Jacob’s crotch, careful not to wet his jeans with saliva, but with enough pressure that Jacob sucks air harshly through his teeth. Jacob tangles one hand in Pratt’s hair, tight enough to pull at his scalp.

Pratt rakes his teeth across Jacob’s fly. Trying to pull down the zipper with his teeth feels like a bridge too far. He’s too certain to make a fool out of himself. But he’s fine with breathing hot and heavy over the bulge of Jacob’s cock, teasing until Jacob starts softly bucking against his face.

All smiles now, Pratt reaches to unfasten Jacob’s pants. Jacob lifts his hips enough to pull his jeans down around his thighs. Pitching forward, Pratt sticks his nose into the soft skin just above Jacob’s cock, tight enough that Jacob must feel Pratt’s panting against his flushed shaft.

Pulling gently at Pratt’s hair, Jacob tears him away. Jacob wraps his other hand around his cock, holding it in place and tugging Pratt into position to place his mouth around the flared head. Pratt doesn’t sink down, keeping just enough tension that he can feel the dull pain of Jacob’s grip in his hair. Sucking, at least as much as Jacob will let him, he does his best to look up, to lock his eyes with Jacob’s blue. Jacob’s face is flushed red, his control already starting to slip.

Instead of holding his cock in place, Jacob slides his hand up the shaft until he can press his fingers against Pratt’s mouth where it’s stretched around his dick. Softly probing, Jacob pulls his bottom lip down away from his teeth, forcing Pratt to open wider to avoid scraping against his thick erection. He must decide against it, pulling his fingers back.

“Don’t think I’ll ever get bored of the look of you on your knees,” Jacob says, letting go of Pratt’s hair and resting his hand on the back of his head instead.

Pratt lets Jacob fuck his face for a while, thrusting into the wet, open channel of his throat. He’s gotten better at not gagging on it, of keeping relaxed through the process.

“That’s it, that’s it, Peaches,” Jacob praises. 

Spurred on by the encouragement, Pratt pushes further than Jacob’s guiding hand. He plants his hands on the tops of Jacob’s thighs and surges forward until his nose is buried against Jacob’s groin. Gag reflex kicking in, Pratt tries to pull back off, only to find Jacob holding him firmly in place.

“Gonna make a mess of yourself like that,” Jacob warns, rolling his hips one last time before letting loose.

Pratt hurries to breathe once he’s free, wheezing loudly. His face is wet. Running his hand down his chin, it comes away sticky with his own saliva. He smears it over Jacob’s thigh.

Jacob soothes, “Okay, alright, you should finish what you started,” giving Pratt the signal to put his mouth back on his cock. Pratt sucks him to completion and ends up spitting in the garbage can, still filled with empty beer bottles from the previous occupant. When he returns to the couch, he can see the indentation from the beaded bracelet cut blush-red into the pale skin of Jacob’s thigh.

They switch positions, Jacob kneeling on the floor between Pratt’s legs. He swallows, and tells Pratt he has to go before someone misses him at the Center. Next time, he’ll figure out someplace better, and try to find an excuse that will give them more time. He just wanted to be able to give Pratt his birthday gift in a timely fashion. Didn’t want Pratt to think that he forgot.


	13. Chapter 13

The first silo goes up at the beginning of September. Well, the silo has always been there, it just gets a new coat of paint. Pratt sees it driving from Silverlake to Fall’s End to meet up with Joey. 

Bright red. Hard to miss. With a white cross emblazoned on the side facing towards the road. The sight of it makes Pratt’s stomach churn. Something about it sets off a weird feeling. Like there’s a history behind it, though Pratt has never seen this exact symbol before. It’s hateful. A warning to outsiders. But it’s in _his_ fucking hometown.

He doesn’t need to look up who owns the farm, already knowing in gut that it’s John Seed. That this is the mark of Joseph’s church. 

When he meets Joey at the Spread Eagle, he tells her about it. Mary May leans over the bar and says she saw it too. Her dad is concerned about it. That at least confirms to Pratt that he’s not overreacting about the whole thing. 

“He means to go talk to John Seed about it,” Mary May explains, “He might own the land, but the rest of us have to look at it. I doubt John will be decent, but maybe it’ll scare him off trying anything else.”

“Bastard will probably try and say we’re encroaching on his ‘religious freedoms,’” Joey makes scare quotes with her fingers, keeping the neck of her beer clutched in one hand. “I haven’t seen it for myself yet. But...fuck from what Mary May described….”

“It looks like an Iron Cross,” Mary May wrinkles her nose. “It’s tasteless.”

That’s what it reminded Pratt of. He couldn’t quite place it before, just knew it dredged up something terrible when he looked at it.

After that, the topic drifts away from John Seed’s silo. Joey tells him she’s taking a week off in early December to go snowboarding with her friends. Pratt asks her if she even knows how to snowboard and she just shrugs her shoulders saying it can’t be that difficult to learn. If she’s not careful, she’ll come home with a broken neck.

They all accrue way more time off than they can actually take, with the department perpetually understaffed. Pratt has managed to take days off here and there, mostly when his mom needs something done. And then when he went to Billings with Jacob for a couple of days. He sort of aches for that again, even if it’s just one night, even if it’s kind of sort of just pretend. Maybe if he asks, Jacob can figure something out, but he has a distinct feeling that Jacob is already doing everything he can to make time for him, and asking anything more would be unduly selfish.

Joey wants to play darts, which she always wants because she’s good at it. At least, she’s much better than Pratt, even when she’s already loose and drunk. When the other patrons are settled, Mary May joins them for a bit. It’s a slow night and she doesn’t need to spend all her time behind the bar.

He’s about ready to go pass out on Joey’s couch, six beers in and his head cloudy, when Joey swings her arm over his shoulders. She’s gotta get up on her toes to reach. 

“You know I’d fucking fight any bastard for you, right?” She slurs, dragging him down to her level to rub the top of Pratt’s head roughly, messing up his hair and then letting go. “I’m always on your side.”

“I know Joey, Jesus,” he tries to straighten out his hair from her assault. “What brought this on?”

She shrugs, “I don’t think you hear it enough, from anyone. But I love you. No matter what, okay? And I will always be on your side.”

Joey’s admission leaves him dumbstruck, trying to figure out what she does and doesn’t know. If she’s just waiting for Pratt to come out and tell her. Or if really, these are just the ramblings of a drunk woman with too much affection and not enough girlfriend in the immediate vicinity.

“Come on,” Pratt tries to keep her from completely falling apart on him, “let’s head back to your place, okay. I think we’ve both had enough.”

—

Jacob can’t get time away until the end of September. But when he does, it’s two days he’s supposed to be in Helena.

This time, Pratt feels weird about it. He doesn’t know what was in the “shipment” Jacob retrieved last time in Billings. He didn’t ask. Maybe he should have asked. But at the time it seemed unimportant. He was too dizzy with the prospect of his first night sleeping next to Jacob, being seen with him even if it was just the diner across the street from their motel.

“What’s it you’ve gotta get?” he asks, calmly as he can.

“Water filtration equipment,” Jacob responds with a heavy sigh, “John found a supplier who can handle the volume of filters that we need. But someone has to go sign the papers in person. I’m just picking up the samples for now. They’ll ship the bulk of them to John later.”

“Oh okay,” Pratt responds, that at least puts his mind to ease a little. It does seem like John is having a lot of renovations done on the properties he’s brought up. 

“I could have made him do it himself, but I figured it would be a good opportunity…”

“No, yeah,” Pratt says, confirming his next pvp round when the roster fills. “I already have the 23rd off anyway, I’ll put in for the 24th.”

Jacob gives him details about where to park his car.

—

Pratt starts seeing white trucks like Jacob’s, with the Eden’s Gate cross rendered in black. He considers calling Jacob, telling him that if he’s done his truck up too, he doesn’t care if it’s for the sake of his brother’s image, he doesn’t care that Jacob doesn’t really believe. Pratt won’t get into his truck and go to Helena. He won’t.

But every time he’s about to call he doesn’t. Comes up with an excuse. Jacob won’t pick up his phone anyway. They can just….have this conversation on the 23rd. If Jacob’s truck is defiled, Pratt can just drive back to Hope, spend his two days off getting drunk and playing cod, like he would have if he didn’t have plans with Jacob.

On the morning of the 23rd, Pratt pulls into the state park parking lot, no sign of Jacob’s truck. If he’s on business for Joseph, he’d expect the truck, not one of the other cars that Jacob uses when he tries to be discrete. But looking around the lot, Pratt doesn’t see any of those cars either. And he definitely doesn’t see Jacob, who is pretty hard to miss.

He waits fifteen minutes before pulling out his phone. Jacob is never really late. Sometimes, he gives windows instead of an exact time, because he’s not entirely sure when he’ll be able to slip out or how the roads will be. This time, though he told Pratt he’d be waiting in the park by 7am.

Pratt is just about to dial him when a white truck pulls into the lot. He can only see the passenger side from the angle of approach. It’s bare. Jacob pulls up next to Pratt’s civic, but doesn’t bother to get out. Pratt climbs out the car, but before he gets in, he walks around to the driver’s side. Oh thank fucking god.

Jacob raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything until Pratt’s inside the cab and buckled up. He pulls out of the park lot and gets onto the road before saying, “My brothers aren’t exactly subtle, are they?”

“You know what it looks like, right?” Pratt huffs. He knows Jacob didn’t go to college, and he has a strong suspicion that he might not have finished high school. But he was in the military.

“That’s not it, I promise you,” Jacob says, “my brother has a lot of beliefs, but intolerance based on circumstances of birth isn’t one of them.”

Pratt crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his seat, “Okay, alright. I guess I have to believe you.”

“You could see for yourself?” Jacob says, eyes still on the road.

“What do you mean?” Pratt asks. Jacob can’t possibly be implying that Pratt go to one of Joseph’s services. 

“You could hear him out. See if his words appeal to you.”

Pratt snickers, “Sorry, Jacob, but you know I think your brother is full of shit, right?”

Jacob shrugs, “You’ve never listened.”

“No,” Pratt admits. This conversation has taken a turn he didn’t expect, “but I listen to you. And _you_ think he’s full of shit.”

“I never said that,” Jacob takes one hand off the wheel to run his hand over his beard. “It might be...easier if you listened to him. If you liked what he said.”

Pratt has to cut this one off at the pass, “Jacob, I’m _Catholic_. And that’s _never_ changing. I’m not in the business of murdering my own mother.”

“You’ll follow a religion that thinks you’re an abomination?”

Getting into the finer points of church doctrine isn’t how Pratt planned on spending this trip. He’d much rather that Jacob bend him over and use him like a cheap whore then talk about how the next two days of sin are sending him straight to hell. 

“Your brother’s beliefs aren’t any different,” Pratt spits back, “or have you forgotten the last year and a half we’ve spent sneaking around to protect your reputation?”

“Yours too,” Jacob corrects. And yeah, Pratt will at least admit that, his too. “And that’s not why. Eden’s Gate doesn’t reject homosexuality outright…you’ve _met_ John, right?”

Pratt can’t help but snicker, even if the implications there are...troubling. “Then why all the secrecy, Jacob? I know I haven’t exactly been the most forthcoming either,” he puts his sneakers on the edge of the passenger seat, tucking his knees close to his chest. If Jacob were in an accident now, the airbags would probably force Pratt’s legs through his chest cavity, killing him instantly. Good thing Jacob is a more conscientious driver than he lets on. “But if you wanted...shit,” he laughs, “I’d introduce you to my mom and everything.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Jacob says solemnly, “you don’t want people to know you sleep with men.”

“Neither do you,” they’re just going to go around in circles like this.

“No,” Jacob squeezes down tightly on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “I do not want Joseph to know that I’m sleeping with _you_.”

That takes Pratt back. He didn’t realize that Jacob is so ashamed of him, specifically. Having that knowledge now leaves a sour feeling in his gut. One that might only be alleviated by throwing himself from the moving truck, hitting the pavement and becoming an ugly smear. A body for some other agent of the law to look at with deadened eyes, then go back to their department and be forced into useless therapy sessions.

“Everything decent in my life I owe to Joseph,” Jacob continues, though Pratt doesn’t want to hear it. 

He wants to leave. Maybe he can rent a car in Helena, drive him fucking ass back to Hope alone. Make up some goddamn fucking story to tell Joey, who will help him go pick up his car. She’ll ask a lot of questions and he’ll make up some lie about a hook-up gone wrong. God, that’s what this _is_ isn’t it.

“But his altruism...it comes with a price, sacrifice. And while I’m willing to pay. I don’t want him to touch you. I don’t want him to meddle. And he will, if he thinks there’s someone I care about.”

Pratt looks across the gap between them. Jacob still gripping tight to the steering wheel, his cheeks flushed red. While Jacob maybe shows how he feels quite frequently in action, he doesn’t often put it into words.

“He’ll meddle…” Pratt repeats.

“That’s why Joseph doesn’t know about you. That’s why he doesn’t know I’m gay.”

Pratt about chokes on his own spit, “You’re what?”

Jacob responds, “What?”

Jacob’s not gay though, right? He may be uh, sleeping Pratt, making him food, taking him hunting, hell, driving them both to Helena at the chance of actually getting to spend a night together, and giving Pratt useless gifts for his birthday like a goddamn bracelet. But Jacob isn’t _gay_. The thought has never once occurred to Pratt.

_He called Pratt his boyfriend._

Why? Why did this never occur to Pratt. Not fucking once? What did he think that they were doing here? That Pratt was Jacob’s risky mid-life crisis? Or one of those straight guys who sometimes got off with smaller, weaker men as a way of asserting their dominance?

_You dumb shit. He sucks your dick like it’s a lifeline._

“You’re gay….”

Jacob laughs, and it actually sounds nervous, “What do you think we’ve been going on about for the last year, Pratt?”

“I don’t know I just...you sound so sure of it. You’re not, like, at least bi?” God it’s such a dumb thing to say. But the idea that Jacob Seed isn’t attracted to women at all is unfathomable. It turns everything Pratt thought he knew on its head.

“Peaches,” he sighs, “I’m forty-four years old. I know exactly who I am. Even if no one else does.”

“No one?” he asks, knees still clutched close to his chest.

“Well I thought my boyfriend knew. But apparently he’s fucking oblivious,” Jacob teases.

Pratt scoffs, squeezing his arms around his legs, the beads on his wrist press into the heavy fabric of his jeans, “So you never told anyone?”

“Told plenty of people, when I was younger than you are now,” Jacob explains, “but I survived both a war and an epidemic, they weren’t so lucky.”

After that, they’re both quiet. The air inside the cab stays somber for a time. They listen to the radio until Pratt gets fidgety. They should pull over soon to stretch their legs. Pratt tells Jacob as much and he looks for someplace they can stop. He might as well get gas at the same time.

Pratt goes into the matchbox of a convenience store while Jacob fills up the truck. He didn’t give Pratt any particular requests, just grumbled to get him something. Pratt buys a snickers and a twix, figuring that he likes both and would be happy with whichever one Jacob didn’t pick.

Back at the truck, Pratt holds up both options, Jacob tells him to pick first and doesn’t budge on it. Pratt hands him the snickers bar.

With the break, Pratt feels a bit better, a little less tightly wound about this whole situation. He still has questions, though.

“I guess...if Joseph is okay with you being gay, I still don’t get why you haven’t told him?”

“It’s not complicated,” Jacob insists, “though I get how it could be hard to understand. He knows damn near everything about me. And I want this, what we have, to be between you and me. I want this to be _good_.”

“Okay,” Pratt nods, “and John, he doesn’t know either?”

“I’ve never told him. I think he has his suspicions about me. But if he knew about you. He’d run and tell Joseph. So, no, he doesn’t know about us.”

As much as this wasn’t the conversation Pratt was expecting, he feels good now. Grounded. Jacob’s family is complicated. He’s just managing the situation as best as he can.

“But you wanted me to look at Joseph’s church, said it would make things easier for us?”

“If you joined, it would give us an excuse to talk to each other. To spend time together. Could get you an assignment at the Veterans Center. We could see each other whenever we wanted…”

“I...can’t lie to everyone like that, Jacob. It’s one thing that we just don’t flaunt it, that we’re careful. That I can do. But I don’t think I could lie to that many people. Especially my mom.”

“Okay, I get it,” Jacob says, “just, it’s something to think about. I could protect you.”

The same as Billings, Jacob asks for Pratt to wait in the truck while he checks into the motel. Pratt plays candy crush on his phone while he waits, running out of lives way before Jacob manages to make it back with the keys. He hands one key to Pratt, keeping the other for himself, before reaching into the back of the cab and grabbing both of their bags.

It’s not quite noon yet, and Jacob’s meeting isn’t until tomorrow. It’s really a trip that could be done in a single day. Helena is about half as far away from Hope as Billings, and Pratt wonders how Jacob even convinced Joseph would need two days. Or maybe Jacob just told his brother that he needed the time away. Doesn’t matter. They’re here now.

They drop their bags on the single bed and Jacob rummages through his for his toothbrush. Before disappearing into the bathroom, he asks Pratt if he wants to walk around a little, get some lunch? Pratt agrees that they might as well.

He flops down onto the bed while he waits for Jacob, staring at the popcorn-textured drop ceiling. This room isn’t quite as nice as the one in Billings, a little more run down. But it’s still on the right side of “nice,” with furniture that probably gets billed as rustic and a flat-panel tv on the dresser. 

Jacob emerges from the bathroom, his face washed and teeth brushed. Pratt slips in behind him to freshen up as well, wiping down his face and hands, looking at himself in the mirror and fussing with his hair. 

Before they go, Pratt grabs a hair tie from his bag, tying up his hair in a tiny knot to keep it up off his ears.

“Can never decide if I like your hair like that or not,” Jacob says.

“Why?”

“Well, it looks real cute. But you hate when I call you that.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Pratt curses, shoving at Jacob’s shoulder to get moving. “I really hate you sometimes.”

“Know you do, Peaches.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys.
> 
> I’m so, so sorry that I haven’t been replying to comments at all. I just barely have enough energy at the moment to get these chapters posted. But I want you all to know that all of your super kind words have brought me back to this story, and hopefully for at least a few weeks I’ll be able to keep updating.
> 
> Also, this chapter is fairly short. This story has breathplay/asphyxiation at several points in this story, but this chapter has a particularly graphic choking scene. This chapter is just a sex scene and ENTIRELY skippable if you’re not into it.

God, by the time they get back to their motel room after dinner, Pratt is fucking aching to be _touched_. To have Jacob’s huge hands all over him, warm and rough and putting him in his fucking place. The couple of beers he had with his steak might have something to do with it. Or the fact Jacob took him to get steak at all. Because honest to fucking god, it seems like Jacob took that whole offhand comment about spoiling Pratt to fucking heart. 

Both of them knew exactly what they looked like at dinner, dressed a little better than they do normally, Jacob in a button down Pratt has never seen before and Pratt in a checkered dress shirt he rarely has occasion to wear. And they looked fucking _good_ together. Looked like a goddamn couple.

But right now, as fucking hot as Jacob looks in his getup, Pratt just wants him back out of it, pawing at the faux-pearl buttons and stripping the shirt off of Jacob’s broad shoulders, pulling at the white shirt underneath to get it off and for him to get at Jacob’s scarred skin.

“Want you so fucking bad,” Pratt admits, grinding himself against Jacob’s jeans, shoving him until he sits down on the edge of the bed. Pratt straddles him, politely taking direction when Jacob starts to strip him from his shirt. “God,” Pratt moans, “want you fucking inside of me.”

He grabs hold of Jacob’s hair, twisting his head so Pratt can crash their lips together, hard enough that Jacob topples back against the mattress, dragging Pratt underneath the tide of their desires like a stone.

“Eager aren’t you?” Jacob works Pratt’s belt open, tugging at the oversized buckle and whipping it from Pratt’s belt loops. With the belt disposed of, Jacob starts kneading Pratt’s thighs, grabbing at the firm muscle there and working it in his grip. “Such a slut for it,” the way the words leave Jacob’s lips make him sound like he’s in awe.

“Just know what I want,” Pratt counters, wrapping his hand around Jacob’s throat. It’s not big enough to go all the way around, but he gets a pretty firm hold. He feels Jacob’s adam’s apple bob underneath his stretched palm.

Jacob reaches around Pratt’s back to grab two handfuls of his ass, pulling him apart through his jeans. “Is that so?” Jacob smiles, “been dreaming about my dick?”

Pratt nods, letting go of Jacob’s neck and rocking back into his hands instead. “Put me in my goddamn place already,” Pratt taunts.

Jacob flips them over smoothly, pinning Pratt down underneath his weight. He thrusts sharply against the apex of Pratt’s thighs, the length of his cock tenting in his jeans. He doesn’t bother trying to hold Pratt’s hands down, going directly for his neck instead. And god, Jesus fucking Christ, he gets so much further around Pratt’s neck than Pratt can around his. Just one big hand with fingers spread wide enough that they touch down against the mattress.

“This what you want?” Jacob asks.

Pratt wheezes hard, his windpipe expanding as much as it can. Jacob lets up just enough that Pratt can swallow down some air and hiss, “Yes,” through his teeth.

Jacob has to let go of his neck to strip Pratt out of his jeans. They already stashed the lube underneath the pillow before they left for dinner. Pratt reaches up above his head to try and locate the bottle. Once he’s found it, he hands it off to Jacob to stretch him open, but Jacob presses it back in his direction. 

“Wanna watch you finger yourself, Peaches.”

Pratt snaps, “if I wanted to fuck myself I wouldn’t be here.”

Jacob smacks him lightly on the cheek. It stings a little, but more than anything, it’s surprising. Pratt can’t say he didn’t like it…

“Do as you’re told.”

Pratt wants to keep on fighting him. Wants Jacob to be the one to give in first. “No.”

He half expects for Jacob to hit him again, but instead he grumbles and grabs the bottle. Pratt relaxes instantly, realizing well and truly that Jacob is going to cave first. That he’s going to err on the side of caution, rather than push Pratt too far.

Jacob spears him thoroughly on two fingers, going deep and hard right from the start. He knows how good Pratt can take it, how he’ll push for more even when it’s still too soon, too much.

“What a pretty picture you make,” Jacob praises, sticking three of his fingers from his other hand into Pratt’s mouth at once. He pushes until Pratt gags around them, starting to cough up slime around the digits. “Gotta stuff you from both ends, one of these days.”

Pratt’s eyes roll back in his head, Jacob’s hand still in his mouth but only to the first set of knuckles. He suckles on them, getting them wet, while Jacob stretches him with his other hand.

Jacob pulls his fingers out at both ends, wiping them messily in the sheets. He shucks his jeans, tossing them aside and positioning himself in between Pratt’s spread thighs.

Before Jacob can sink in, Pratt pushes himself up onto his hands, capturing Jacob’s mouth one more time. “Want you to _choke_ me while you do it,” Pratt says, being direct with what he wants.

Jacob’s eyes go a little wide, but quickly narrow again. “Got an idea,” he smiles, slapping the inside of Pratt’s thigh.

Getting out of bed, he searches through the pile of their mixed clothes on the floor. He pulls out Pratt’s belt and _oh god_ as if Pratt wasn’t rock hard before. Yeah, yeah, Pratt knows exactly what he wants.

Jacob loops the belt behind the back of Pratt’s neck, the dark leather still a little warm and soft from Pratt wearing it all day. Pratt doesn’t move while Jacob works, threading the end of the belt through the buckle and closing it loosely around Pratt’s throat. The buckle itself lays flat under Pratt’s chin, a gentle weight against his Adam’s apple, colder than the leather. The belt is still slack while Jacob rubs his thumb over Pratt’s cheek.

“Sure?” Jacob asks.

Pratt nods, “Trust you.”

“Mmm,” Jacob hums, positioned between Pratt’s legs again and starting to pull the belt taut, “maybe you shouldn’t, though.”

Only for a moment Pratt panics, feeling the leather start to constrict around his neck, soft and supple, compared to the unforgiving edges of the buckle forcing his neck straight and cutting into the skin under his jaw.

There’s still enough give for him to breathe when Jacob turns his attention back to his cock, pressing the head of it against Pratt’s rim and starting to push in. The deeper he goes, the tighter Jacob draws the belt around Pratt’s neck, until he bottoms out and Pratt tries to breathe.

And oh god, oh god, oh god, he tries to and he _can’t_. 

His body panics, starting to thrash, and Jacob lets the belt go slack again. Pratt’s entire face feels wet, his tear ducts going crazy when he realized he was choking. Jacob starts pulling out, his attention still intensely focused on Pratt’s face. As he starts to thrust back in, he tightens the belt again, and this time, Pratt doesn’t try to breathe when it’s cutting into his skin. He just holds his breath until Jacob loosens up again.

God, it’s like walking a tightrope, making Pratt dizzy beyond belief. And he doesn’t think it’s from the lack of air, because Jacob doesn’t keep the belt tight long enough for breathing to be a problem. Once Pratt matches his inhales with Jacob’s strokes, he’s well within the limits of how long he can hold his breath. But just knowing that Jacob has this power over him, something so tangible, so dangerous, makes him delirious.

He can barely feel Jacob pounding at his hole, going faster now, slamming their hips together while he restricts Pratt’s air. More present in Pratt’s mind is the metal across his throat, warming with his body heat but no more forgiving as it scrapes into his skin.

“Touch yourself,” Jacob tells him, tightening the noose once more. “You look so fucking good like this, like a proper collared bitch. Think you want it more than you let on.”

“Never,” Pratt chokes, stroking himself furiously to try and match Jacob’s thrusts. 

Jacob lets up with the belt, leaving it slack so he can use both hands to help him get leverage. But Pratt is so fucking close, and he wants it _tight_ as he comes. He wants the _panic_ again.

“Again,” Pratt whispers, “close...Want it.”

Jacob gets the idea, grabbing hold of the end of the belt and pulling sharply. Pratt tries to breathe at the point he knows he’ll get nothing. And there, right fucking there, he starts to come, his head spinning and vision whiting out even though Jacob has already let go of the belt, his fingers slipping underneath to make sure that there is plenty of give to it now. Pratt barely registers that Jacob came too, pulling out now that they’re done, sticky-wet semen buried in his hole.

Carefully, Jacob works the leather free from the buckle, helping Pratt lift up his head and pulling the belt out from underneath him. He rubs his thumb underneath Pratt’s jaw, around his neck. “The leather won’t leave any marks. But your going to bruise where the buckle was. We didn’t think ahead.” He pets Pratt’s hair.

They lay together a good long while, Jacob playing with Pratt’s hair while he dozes against Jacob’s chest. It’s not even that late, but Pratt feels totally wiped out. He’s thankful Jacob doesn’t try and coddle him, asking a dozen questions about if Pratt is okay with what they did, or feeling guilty about whether or not that’s what Pratt really wanted, or trying to analyze why Pratt may have just had the best orgasm of his goddamn life while the rest of his body thought he was literally dying.

He does wake Pratt up eventually, telling him he should probably go and try to clean himself out a little, or he’s going to regret that in the morning.

In the bathroom mirror Pratt finally sees for himself what his neck looks like. There are faint red marks where the leather dug in a little, all the way around his neck. But Jacob was right, those will probably fade by morning. More dramatic is the imprint of the edge of his buckle underneath his chin. That bruise is dark already, though relatively slim and somewhat hidden if Pratt looks down. Eyes dead ahead it’s not that noticeable either, though visible if someone were looking for it. If asked, he could say he fell asleep on the couch and fell off, smacking his chin on the coffee table. Reasonable enough excuse, even if it kind of paints him as lonely and pathetic. Better than the alternative of explaining what actually happened to anyone. Ever.


	15. Chapter 15

In mid-October, Pratt, Hudson, and Gilmore are “volunteered” for the pumpkin festival at Rae Rae’s farm. They only have to attend one day, shoved behind a folding table with uneven legs and a banner hung from the aluminum posts of their stall reading “Hope County Sheriff’s Department” in blocky blue letters. 

Last year, Gilmore and Froelich had the honors. But rumor is that Froelich has put in his notice. Might have already sold his home to the Seeds and is planning on up and moving his family. His oldest girl is going to start high school in a year, and while she’ll get a diploma in Hope, it won’t count for much when she applies to colleges. Caleb and Pratt were the only two to get into Bozeman from their graduating class, and if you’re trying to set your aspirations higher than that...well, you’re probably out of luck.

As usual, Whitehorse isn’t about to trust Pratt and Hudson on their own. And honestly, they’ve never given him any reason to think they can handle _anything_ even if it’s sitting around in the October sun trying to smile at kids. 

Scratch that, yeah, Joey and Staci are about the two _worst_ people the sheriff could have picked for this assignment so maybe this is actually fucking punishment with Gilmore as their jailer. But Gilmore, man, she’s a fucking pro at this.

They have a bunch of hard candies and balloons they can give out to kids. Otherwise, they’re just supposed to smile and talk nice with the residents. The parents have all sorts of benign questions for them, about their sidearms and what they keep back at the station, what the work is like, jabs about donuts and how before long they’re all going to look like Cheeseburger, never mind that basically all the deputies are in pretty good shape even if their diets are shit. Gilmore lost her considerable pregnancy weight in like, six fucking weeks like some sort of fat-shedding demon. 

Joey has been blasting through the candies herself, popping one after another into her mouth and sucking down hard, always keeping a pocket of hard sugar pressed against the inside of her cheek. Pratt has maybe indulged as well, but the sheer volume of pure sugar that Joey can stomach is impressive, if nothing else.

When John Seed makes an appearance, Pratt is ready to fucking bolt. Except for the fact that Joey grabs hold of his arm with her goddamn talons (Okay, she wears her nails blunt because of uh, “activities” but it doesn’t matter her fingers still feel like claws) and she looks like she might pass out.

Which leaves Pratt with no way out, though he considers just fucking grabbing Joey, tossing her over his shoulder and booking it out of there. He doesn’t even know why she’s so spooked about John Seed and while he’s sort of known Joey can’t stand the guy, he’s never delved any deeper than that, worried that speaking the Seed name too frequently with too much interest is going to bring his own secrets to light.

“What are the chances he just ignores us?” Pratt hisses under his breath.

“Pretty much fucking zero,” Joey snarls, watching and Gilmore fucking goes up to the guy to make small talk.

Pratt and Joey stay pretty much frozen in place behind the table. Pratt doesn’t know what Joey is doing to occupy her mind and keep from fucking screaming but Pratt’s head is just white noise punctuated every once in awhile with intrusive thoughts about every lurid sexual encounter he’s had with Jacob and the dread that somehow John knows about all of them even though Jacob assured him that there’s no way.

He couldn’t even eavesdrop on Gilmore and John if he wanted to because everything else is so fucking loud. He just prays to fucking God that John is satisfied with speaking to the most charming of the deputies and leaves Pratt and Joey alone.

But no such luck, because with a smile he says goodbye to Gilmore, but takes one smooth step towards the booth. Joey cracks straight through the candy between her teeth and Pratt considers throwing the whole damn bowl into John’s face as a distraction.

John smiles politely, saying it’s good to see them both. He has both hands shoved into the forward pockets of his dress slacks, causing the fabric to flare around his knuckles. Pratt has always gotten shit from other guys about how slim he is, never really able to put on any bulk, but John is obscenely narrow through his waist and hips, and Pratt kind of can’t figure out how he and Jacob have the same genetics. Except for the eerie similarities in their face.

Pratt barely registers that John is talking to him, his thin, pink lips moving, smiling slightly on every little puff of air. He really is stupidly attractive.

“Are you alright, Deputy Pratt?” John frowns, he looks genuinely concerned, brow furrowed and lips drawn tight. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Mr. Seed,” Pratt stumbles, “my apologies…” truthfully, he hasn’t heard a word.

John smiles back at him, two rows of perfectly white teeth. He goes into his pocket again, slipping out a slim silver case. Patting his chest pocket, he comes up empty, then asks if he can borrow the pen from off the table. Neither Pratt nor Joey say anything, but he picks up the pen anyway. Scribbling down something on the back of one of his business cards, John takes a second look at the slip of cardboard before putting the pen back down. He hands the card to Pratt, then says goodbye to both.

Dumbly, Pratt turns the card in his hand. On the front it says JOHN SEED in evenly spaced, plain lettering. Really classy without trying too hard. Below that is contact information for an office in Atlanta, and one here in Hope County. Pratt flips the card over, checking what John wrote on the back.

Another phone number.

Oh fucking. Hell no.

Joey hisses next to him, “Don’t you fucking dare Staci Pratt, do not fall for his fucking shit.”

“I’m not,” Pratt stutters, “no fucking way I’m not calling him.”

Joey snatches the card from him, tearing it up into tiny confetti and throwing it in the dirt at their feet. “Never,” she reinforces. “I swear to god, Staci, I will cut off your fucking dick first before I let you go near him.”

“Uhhhh,” so that’s a little more intense than what Pratt was expecting.

Pratt looks up to see Gilmore staring at the both of them. She keeps her mouth closed.

Both Pratt and Joey plaster on fake smiles for the rest of the afternoon. Joey starts chewing her way through the candy and by four pm admits that she’s not feeling so hot. Pratt offers to drive her home. They can worry about her car in the morning. He’s got his shift starting at 8 and when he gets off tomorrow he can pick her up and drive her back to the pumpkin farm.

Joey brushes him off saying that she’s fine. Or, at least she will be. She’s not so infirm that she can’t drive herself back to Fall’s End. Still, Pratt walks her to her car and gets into the passenger seat unprompted. He doesn’t have the time to go home with her before her shift, but they should probably address what’s going on between her and John Seed at least a little.

“Joey….what did John do?”

Her hands are tight around the steering wheel, her dark hair come loose from her ponytail, obscuring most of her face. Breathing heavily, her whole body shudders. The parking lot is still full of stragglers heading home, but inside the car, their voices are muffled.

“He keeps coming around the Fairgrave’s house, um. God, this is going to sound so dumb.” She shakes her head, “he keeps trying to get me and Mary May alone, asking shit about when he might stop by. He hasn’t _done_ anything. At least not yet. But you can just...feel it, right? That something isn’t right with him? He knows I live alone in the coach house and...fuck.” She laughs, “I have a fucking gun, I’m a veteran and a fucking sheriff’s deputy, and I’m letting some overaged twink with a fancy degree intimidate me. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re allowed to have feelings, Joey,” Pratt says. “You want me to come stay with you awhile? Might make you feel better about the whole thing. Or at least show John you’re not there alone.”

“No,” Joey bites her lip, peeling off a whole patch of dried skin in the process. Left behind is a ugly red blotch. “I’m okay. He’s not...he’s not really going to do anything. I don’t think. I’ll fucking shoot him before he does.”

“Okay,” Pratt tucks both his hands in between his pressed together thighs. Jacob’s bracelet rolls up his forearm as it scratches against the inside of his leg. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Later, kiddo,” she teases mirthlessly as Pratt gets out of her car.

—

He calls Jacob when he gets home, hanging up before it goes to voicemail. Jacob will know to call him back.

Pratt takes a nap before his shift, checks his phone. No missed calls. He quickly showers and drives to the station, grumpy that he was just at ‘work’ four hours ago. But at least he has the next two days off.

There’s usually little to do on the overnights, at least after the bars close up. So when midnight comes around and they haven’t been called out, Pratt tells Davies that he’s going take out the the cruiser and drive around a bit. Otherwise, he’s going to fall asleep at his desk.

Davies tells him to bring back something to drink. A coke or something. With caffeine, that’s the part that’s most important.

The air is colder now than it was at the festival, the sun set and the temperature dipping low. It still smells like fall, though, wet leaves and the crispness that follows when not so much biomatter is left to rot in the heat.

Pratt turns the headlights on and buckles in, no particular destination in mind. He just wants to get out of the stuffy office. Drive around with the windows down and maybe issue a ticket or two. It doesn’t matter. As long as Davies can get him on the radio, he doesn’t have to come back until the end of his shift.

He turns off towards the Whitetails, even though it’s easier to navigate through the Valley, if he really wants to be able to shut his mind off and just coast around. It’s two-fifteen and the roads are mostly empty. He just has to watch out for the wildlife. 

His cell phone buzzes on the passenger seat, just as he reaches the foothills. He pulls off to the side of the road, lights still on to warn approaching cars. Picking up, he already knows it’s Jacob and he answers with a soft, “Hi.”

“Hey there, Peaches.”

“Hey,” he unbuckles his seatbelt while he’s got the car in park, stretching his legs out as much as he can around the gas and break pedals. “I had a question, uh, really more a favor?”

“Oh?”

Pratt rolls the window up, even though there’s no one around to listen in rather than the elk. But they’re nosy fuckers. “I know that you try not to mess with what your brothers are doing but, uh.” He’s gotta think about how to phrase this, “Your brother is is making my friend, Joey Hudson, really nervous. He might not mean nothing, but she’s losing sleep. She about had a panic attack today when he showed up at the pumpkin festival…”

“John, right?” Jacob asks.

“Yeah, John. Is there anything you can do...you know I try not to...meddle with your family. But I’m really worried about Joey.”

“Is she the friend who lives with the Fairgrave’s?” Jacob asks

“Mmhm, in the coach house.”

Jacob sighs, “John wants that property, badly. The bar too. No one in Fall’s End wants to sell.”

Pratt stops short of asking why John is so desperate to get into town. But he feels like he’s already pushing his luck with Jacob as it is.

“I don’t know if there is much I can do...but I’ll try. This is why I didn’t want my brothers near you. Lots of people find them perfectly charming.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.”

Jacob snickers, “Yeah, but you like _me_ instead. Which means you got more than a few screws loose.”

Pratt can hear wolves howling, somewhere in Jacob’s vicinity, loud and close enough that the cries carry over the phone.

“I gotta go,” Jacob says, “Ninth of November? Any time between two and six am.”

“Two,” Pratt says, without bothering to check his calendar. “Where?”

“Don’t have a place, yet.”

Pratt taps his fingers against the steering wheel, “Come to Silverlake. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Jacob confirms before hanging up.

—

Halloween, is, yet again, a goddamn clusterfuck.

It’s all hands on deck, just like the year before. But this time, Pratt isn’t a probie anymore and can’t play dumb about it. Whitehorse takes Pratt with him, probably worried about a repeat of New Years, or the Drubman’s or any of the other times Pratt has managed to fuck up during his short tenure.

Joey gets Gilmore, because apparently she needs a babysitter too. Froelich hasn’t totally vanished yet, which means he and Davies are in the other car. Getting partnered with Whitehorse means that he’ll probably spend half the night at the station, waiting for any overflow that the other patrols can’t handle.

Pratt sits at his desk, keeping out of Whitehorse’s hair until he’s needed. He brought his phone charger just in case, and currently has it plugged into the wall. He plays through four lives on candy crush without paying much attention, then tries to be cautious with the last one, dragging out the time. Just barely finishing the level, he can’t help but let out a quiet “yes,” when he dings the next level and gets unlimited lives for the next two hours.

His joy is short lived, though, when Whitehorse emerges from his office, telling Pratt to get in the cruiser. Pratt pulls on his coat, leaving the zipper open. On their way out to the car he asks where they’re headed.

“The Seed Ranch,” Whitehorse huffs. “Some people can’t leave well enough alone.”

Pratt freezes in the parking lot, his feet failing to carry him any further.

Bolt. Just fucking run, you idiot. Run into the goddamn woods and never come back. Let a bear fucking eat you.

When Whitehorse reaches the cruiser, he opens the door, barking at Pratt to get in. Pratt’s legs start moving towards the car, even though the rest of him is still screaming to fucking run.

But he gets into the passenger side and buckles up. Stares straight out the windshield all the way to the Ranch. Whitehorse curses under his breath, then radios to Gilmore to be ready in case they need backup.

“There’s a situation at the Eagle, but we’ve nearly wrapped,” Gilmore says. In the background, Pratt can hear Hudson yelling.

“Don’t say anything stupid,” Whitehorse tells him, putting the car into park once they’ve reached the ranch. “I know John Seed is on that shit-list you and Hudson keep. But I don’t want to hear a fucking word.”

Pratt nods and follows the Sheriff out.

John Seed stands tall outside of his ranch, well, as tall as he can, dwarfed by larger men. Dressed in tight fitted jeans and a dress shirt open at the collar, he gestures wildly in his argument with Gary Fairgrave. Gary isn’t a small man by any means, six-one at least with a heavy belly and thick arms. He has a cell phone clutched in one meaty fist. Presumably, he’s the one who called the Sheriff.

And god fucking shit fuck fuck. Pratt knew he should have run, because standing just behind his brother is fucking Jacob. Hands crossed over his chest, looking like a goddamn predator just toying with its prey, ready to put Gary down if John so much as asks. 

“You. Are. Trespassing,” John says, “this is my land.”

“If nobody says nothing the whole fucking county will be ‘your land.’ But godfucking damnit. I’m fucking saying something. You can’t do this. This is our home!” Gary shouts, his pale face splotchy red. They’ve been at this for awhile. John looks pink too, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from anger or the cold.

As Whitehorse and Pratt approach, Pratt catches Jacob’s eyes for the briefest moment. Jacob’s expression doesn’t change, gaze shifting to the threat in front of his brother, watching Gary’s every move.

“I have paid for everything I own,” John seethes, “I have done my best to be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Gary laughs, “you come around my house and harass my kids. You’re a goddamn snake.”

“Gary,” Whitehouse interjects, “care to explain why you called us out here?”

Gary turns to the Sheriff, pointing his finger at John, “he has my son.”

Whitehorse frowns, “What do you mean?”

John rolls his eyes. The floodlights on the front yard make both his and Jacob’s irises look remarkably clear, almost white, rather than blue. “Not this again. Please, Sheriff, I’m trying to be reasonable here. If Mr. Fairgrave would just leave, I won’t bother with any charges.”

“What’s this about Drew?” Whitehorse asks, looking from Gary to John and back again.

Pratt just stands there, the Sheriff’s silent shadow, trying not to draw attention to himself. But mostly trying not to stare at Jacob. Even though, God, he swears he can smell him, wood smoke from the fire that Pratt can almost see around the side of the main building, the shadows the flames cast dancing against the hanger wall.

He feels the eyes on them though. Joseph’s faithful looming in the ranch house. Watching them through the upstairs windows. Pratt manages to sneak a glance, and though the windows are all dark, Pratt can feel their presence there.

What is Joseph Seed doing in Hope County?

Why is Jacob _helping_ him?

It’s a mistake, to look at Jacob then. To see Jacob looking back at him, eyes softened somewhat this time. Like they’re the only two people here, not standing on the sidelines of an argument over the location of a missing child. And Drew _is_ a child. He doesn’t turn 18 until December.

“You see my position here, Mr. Seed,” Whitehorse explains, “he’s just a boy. Whatever his desires to join your brother’s church, until he’s of age, his father has the right to look after him.”

“Drew _was_ here,” John admits, “but he isn’t anymore. I told him the same myself. By now, he’s probably most of the way back to Fall’s End.”

“And why couldn’t you have shared that information with Mr. Fairgrave before now?” Whitehorse shakes his head in exasperation.

“Mr. Fairgrave,” John sneers, his lip curling, something dark and troubling swirling through his voice, “wouldn’t let me speak.”

Whitehorse tells both of them that they’re done. Gary needs to get back in his truck and go home. If Drew isn’t there, like John said he should be, he can give the Sheriff’s office a call. Hell, ring up Nancy anyway, let them know the boy is fine.

Pratt has done what Whitehorse asked of him, not saying a damn thing. He turns away from Jacob, knowing everyone at the ranch is watching Pratt leave but him.


	16. Chapter 16

Pratt has nine days to think about what he wants to say to Jacob. To formulate a response for what happened on Halloween. In the end, he still can’t pin down anything concrete. Anything that doesn’t sound crazy, even when he’s just running questions through his head. But Pratt can’t...he can’t say nothing. Or this is going to tear him and Jacob apart. 

He’s jittery as he waits, scrolling headlines on his phone while sprawled out across his bed. Nothing in particular catches his eye. Really, he’s just listening for Jacob’s car to pull up in front of the trailer. When he hears it, he sits up, stumbling out of bed without turning on any of the lights. That will just draw more attention. He’s hoping that this time Jacob can get in and out without anyone noticing that he was ever here.

Jacob is wearing the same sweatshirt from a year ago, though the cuffs are starting to fray around his calloused hands, there are tiny holes in the hood, around where the string pulls, from being washed too many times.

And yeah, Pratt might have questions, but having Jacob in his house again makes other needs a hell of a lot more urgent, and he drags Jacob back towards the bedroom, their lips pressed together and limbs starting to tangle.

Pratt shoves Jacob into bed, wasting no time climbing on top of him, straddling his knees and thighs over the bulk of Jacob’s hips. Jacob hums, low in his throat, hands grabbing at Pratt’s waist and reminding him, “I’m overdressed.”

They have to stand up, Jacob stripping as quickly as he can manage, Pratt “helping” with his shirt. Once Jacob is bare, Pratt is still in his boxers. Jacob snaps the elastic waistband. “Now you’re the one overdressed.”

Pratt presses kisses into Jacob’s jaw, against his beard, down his throat. Jacob’s breath shudders at every placement, trailing further down until Pratt puts his mouth over one petal pink nipple and sucks, sinking his teeth in just enough that Jacob hisses.

Dropping to his knees, Pratt sucks the head of Jacob’s cock into his mouth, pressing his tongue against where he was cut. Jacob threats his fingers through Pratt’s hair, tugging at him just enough that Pratt bobs his head a few times before pulling him off. Jacob’s still not quite hard when he pulls Pratt back onto his feet.

“Get into bed,” Jacob grumbles, running his flat hand down Pratt’s back, from between his shoulder blades all the way to his tailbone.

“You first,” Pratt counters, reaching up and grabbing Jacob’s hair. “Want to ride you this time.”

Jacob smiles at him, hair sticking up even after Pratt lets it go go. His hair is dirty, oil and dust clinging to the strands, making it mailable, able to hold its shape. “Mm what if I ride you?”

Pratt’s thought process kind of sputters, long enough for Jacob to grab him around his hips and ass and toss him onto the bed.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Peaches. Then again, you’re pretty selfish. So I should have expected…”

Pratt bites that he’s not selfish, he’s sucked Jacob’s dick plenty of times. Would have sucked it once more, if Jacob hadn’t pulled him off. But once Pratt’s back hits the mattress and Jacob climbs on top of him, pale, freckled thighs planted firmly on either side of Pratt’s hips, he starts to actually compute what is going on.

Jacob lifts his hips so he can get inside Pratt’s bedside drawer. He grabs the bottle of lube and doesn’t wait for Pratt to make a snide remark before coating three of his own fingers.

Honestly, Pratt’s got no smartass comments for this one. Just holds tight to the tops of Jacob’s thighs, focusing intently as Jacob reaches behind himself and starts fingering his hole, Jacob’s cock bobbing as he rocks his hips.

“Fuck,” Pratt groans, tossing his head back against the pillow. He’s not even the one being _touched_ but watching Jacob Seed fingering himself open is going to cause him to lose rational thought pretty quickly. He only sort of comes back to the present moment when Jacob is smearing lube onto his dick.

“Stay with me, Peaches, you should be enjoying yourself too.”

Pratt takes a shaky breath, mumbles “Okay, alright, okay….”

Jacob looks down at him, his hips resting over Pratt’s thighs. “Why do I have to ask this every time,” he huffs, “have you done _this_ before?”

“Uh huh,” Pratt says, “just, uh been awhile.”

“Well, I sure hope its ‘been awhile.’ Since you’re supposed to be _mine_.”

Pratt groans as Jacob starts to sink down on his cock. And god fucking shit damn fuck fuck. Jacob is tight, even with the prep. Because yeah, yeah, as long as it’s been since Pratt last topped, it’s been at least that long since Jacob bottomed. And fucking _god_ he’s got his dick up _Jacob Seed._

Jacob moves slowly, not pulling up too much. The bed creaks under his weight as he comes back down, eyes half closed and lips slightly parted. Pratt can’t figure out what to do with his hands or hips or mouth. All he can really register is the tight grip of Jacob’s hole around his cock. And some distant promise to himself that next time, and there is going to be a next time even if Pratt has to beg for it (but he’s also vaguely sure that begging won’t be necessary), he’s going to do better. But for the time being he wraps his arms around Jacob’s waist, planting his hands on the small of Jacob’s back and babbling about how good he feels.

Jacob never seems to pick up the pace, though his cock starts to swell until he’s fully hard. Pratt at least has sense enough to start stroking it. Mostly, he’s just along for the ride here, watching as Jacob starts to sweat, water beading on his neck and chest, as he continues in just the rhythm that he wants.

Pratt is doing everything in his goddamn power not to come too soon. To at least hold out long enough that Jacob can take what he wants from him. When he feels himself getting too close, he starts to work Jacob’s cock faster in his hand, murmuring that he wants it. Wants Jacob to come all over his chest, to mark him up with his release.

Jacob plants one hand on the mattress, lifting off further than before and coming down hard six or seven times before he groans, spasming tightly around Pratt’s cock and coming across his stomach, in the sweaty mat of hair over his abdomen. Pratt grabs Jacob’s hips again, nails digging down as he starts to come, balls drawn tight as he fills up Jacob’s hole, almost laughing with relief as Jacob smiles down at him.

Gingerly, Jacob rolls off of Pratt. There’s not really much space in the bed, so Pratt does his best to shift onto his side to make room. Jacob wraps one of his heavy arms around him, pulling Pratt close to his sweaty chest. They lay like that together until they both settle down.

“So, does this mean I’m supposed to cook for you?” Pratt asks, his nose still buried between Jacob’s pecs.

Jacob laughs, squeezes him tighter, “know how to make anything that’s not in the microwave?”

“No…” Pratt admits.

“Here I am, trying to teach you survival skills, how to hunt and kill, and you wouldn’t know how to cook any of it.”

Jacob goes to clean up, leaving Pratt specific instructions about warming the pan and setting out ingredients. Pratt pulls out the bacon, eggs, bread, and milk, then waits by the stove for Jacob to return.

They cook together, Jacob walking Pratt through what they’re doing, in between muttering that it’s ridiculous that Pratt can’t even make _eggs_.

“Give me a break, okay? I just didn’t think…”

“What did you think, Peaches? That some girl would just be wild about doing all the work for ya?” Jacob tisks, “I’ll make a decent human being out of you yet.”

Jacob is, in a word, intense, about making sure Pratt doesn’t burn the eggs. But hey, in the end, he doesn’t make a wreck of things and he’s fairly sure he could replicate the process on his own. 

They’re eating comfortably at the table when Pratt finally gets around to his concerns about Halloween, “Uh, so, about the other day—at the ranch...“

“I know,” Jacob shakes his head, “you know, I never even got to talk to John about the Fairgraves. You tried to warn us, that John had pushed too hard on someone not about to budge. And even though John was well within his rights, it should have never come to that.” Jacob bites down firmly into his slice of bacon.

“What about Drew?” Pratt already knows that the kid got home safely. Gary called and spoke to Nancy, who told Whitehorse and Pratt once they got back from a domestic in the Henbane they were dispatched to immediately after the incident at John’s ranch. Pratt still doesn’t know where Joseph Seed was that night.

Jacob shrugs, “He’s a dumbfuck, that’s what. But he wants to join Eden’s Gate. John was ready to baptize him and everything. Until we figured out he was a kid. Joseph isn’t in the habit of stealing people’s children.”

Pratt can’t help but bristle at that. Even though Florence is technically an adult, she’s still awfully young. And it still _felt_ like someone’s child being ripped away.

“So, John sent him away,” Jacob says with a flourish of his hand.

“And when he comes back, next month?” Pratt shouldn’t even ask, he already knows the answer.

“Next month, he’ll be a man. And his father can’t stop him.”

Pratt counters, “You don’t just...magically become an adult when you turn eighteen.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jacob says with absolute seriousness. He tilts his arm away from the table, showing Pratt the stretch of his left forearm that’s most badly burnt. “I was seventeen, when burned down our foster parent’s barn. They made us sleep in it, with the animals, after working Joe and me all day. Til our bones hurt, until we were too tired to fight back. John was still too little for labor, then. But the same would be in store for him. He was a fucking _toddler_ but they made him sleep in filth.”

Pratt sits absolutely still, his mouth dry and face numb. Jacob has never spoken about his childhood in such detail. Certainly not about the abuse Pratt knows he endured.

“So I fucking burnt that place to the ground to protect him. Carried him out of the flaming wreck in my arms. He cried the whole time….back then, they weren’t so keen about trying children as adults. I went to juvie until I turned eighteen.” Jacob has a death grip on his fork, his eyes downcast onto his empty plate. “I wasn’t a man then. And I sure as hell wasn't one when I enlisted. All that mattered is what it said on paper.”

Pratt swallows thickly, unable to keep his damn mouth shut, “When did you feel it? When did you become a man?” Because, terrifyingly, Pratt is twenty-three, with a job, a mortgage, and a boyfriend in his forties, and he doesn’t think he’s there yet.

“Couldn’t tell you, but I can tell you when I stopped worrying about it. First time I _killed._ Didn’t feel like an important question after that.”

Pratt’s chest tightens. Jacob was a soldier. He knows that. He knows that Jacob has killed men. Probably a lot of them. That’s _normal_ , for someone like Jacob Seed. Killing people in that context isn’t a crime. Somehow outside the bounds of law that dictate other actions. Because it’s _war_ and war is something Pratt doesn’t know. 

Jacob knows, though. And Joey. God, _Joey_ who saw “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” on a fucking huge banner when she was 17, and still went to war the next year.

They wash the dishes together, Jacob in the sink and Pratt drying them off. After that, Jacob has to go, pulling on his hoodie and covering his hair. Pratt never gets the chance to ask about the eyes in every window of the ranch.

—

At the end of November, they go fishing again. Jacob picks him up in his truck on the other side of the footbridge. They’ve gotten an early snowfall and it’d take twice as long for Pratt to walk his way through the woods. Pratt wasn’t expecting him to meet him at the bridge. But there Jacob is, waiting in the cab and a cigarette between his lips.

As cold as it is, the pond is far from freezing over. Pratt jokes that the fish they caught last time is onto them now, told his friends, they’re not likely to get a bite. They’re not accomplishing anything but freezing their asses off.

“I thought you liked fishing?” Jacob asks, eyebrow raised. He’s wearing his hoodie underneath his fatigue jacket. Pratt has his down coat on, though it’s just a little too thick for the weather, especially after the sun starts coming out. 

“I like it better than hunting,” Pratt clarifies.

“Impatient brat,” Jacob grumbles, but Pratt knows he means it fondly.

They’ve still got nothing at ten am when Jacob starts reeling in. He offers a hand up to Pratt, helping him to his feet. The snow comes up past their ankles as they stand in the little clearing with the pond. Jacob pulls the edges of Pratt’s knit cap down to properly cover his ears.

“No fish, then, I suppose. I have a back up plan.”

“What?” Pratt narrows his eyes. Then again, this is Jacob. And with Jacob, there is always something else.

Jacob heads back to his truck, bringing out a small-ish cooler. Crouching down, he pops open the lid, showing Pratt the raw fish packed in ice inside. “Caught these yesterday, up in the mountains.” It’s mostly bass. “More important that you learn to cook without the stove.”

“Oh my fucking god, you’re kidding me,” Pratt curses. 

Jacob shuts the lid to the cooler, standing back up, “We need to find dry wood and kindling,” he smiles so sweetly that Pratt wants to punch him in the face, “lead the way, Peaches.”

Pratt doesn’t even like bass. They’re shit for eating. But if Jacob wants to do this, Pratt isn’t about to back down. Turning on his heels, he marches off toward the tree line, Jacob following close behind.

With the snow, most of what would make decent kindling is shot, moist and soggy. Okay, so how the fuck is he supposed to find dry shit? Something that’s going to be shielded from the water. Underneath fallen branches or rocks probably won’t work either, since they’re more likely to retain moisture.

“You gonna blow a gasket thinking,” Jacob comments when Pratt stops walking. He’s not sure how long he’s been standing perfectly still and quiet.

“I’m supposed to figure it out, right?”

Jacob hums in response.

Some sort of rocky overhang would be ideal. The fall leaves wouldn’t have started to rot yet. Pratt doesn’t know if there’s anything like that on the property, but he can look. And maybe he’ll find something else in the meantime.

They walk for another five minutes, until Pratt gets a better idea. He starts looking for evergreens that have sprouted up next to deciduous trees. Finding a big pine that seems to fit his specifications, he crouches low and checks under the branches for leaves. But there’s nothing, just pine needles, fuck.

When he stands up empty handed, Jacob frowns at him, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just needles,” Pratt responds.

“And?”

“And...you’re not supposed to burn pine needles?”

Jacob laughs through his exasperation, “You’re not supposed to burn pine in a chimney. It’ll work fine for kindling out of doors. Jesus…you sure you grew up here?”

Pratt sneers, “I’m sure, city boy.”

“Oh?”

“Rome is like, ten times the size of Hope, Jacob. You sure do a great cosplay of a mountain man, but I know the truth.”

“A what?”

Pratt can’t help but laugh, “Never mind.”

It’s warm enough that Pratt doesn’t really need his coat at the moment. So he takes it off and fills it up with enough needles they can make a couple of goes at getting the fire started. He can dump the dry wood in there too.

Getting the wood is more or less just walking around, looking for branches that aren’t too wet. Pratt gets the bright idea to head back toward the tree line, where the density isn’t as thick and the wood is more likely to have gotten some sun over the last couple of days.

Supplies gathered, they head back to the pond. There are enough rocks around that they’re able to make a small, circular fire pit, just big enough that they’ll be able to cook two of the fish side by side.

“Okay, give me your lighter,” Pratt holds out his hand.

Jacob gives him a knife instead.

“You’re fucking killing me here, Jacob.”

Jacob smiles at him, telling him to pull at the handle. Pratt does, and it takes a bit of twisting, but the end of the handle pops off, revealing a magnesium rod hidden inside. Well, that’s clever.

Jacob explains how to use it, running the dull end of the blade against the rod to make a spark. It takes a couple of tries, and Jacob lets him suffer through it, but eventually, Pratt can consistently get it to spark.

A few more tries with the tinder, and the fire finally gets going. Pratt at least knows how to nurse it from here. He’s not as woefully inept as Jacob’s jokes. Once the fire is going, Jacob talks him through spearing the fish with a pointed stick, another use for the knife to get the end of the stick sharp enough. Jacob spears the first one, then lets Pratt do the second. 

They have to turn the fish pretty quickly to keep it from burning all the way through. The end result doesn’t look that fucking appetizing, and even Jacob’s skewer is mostly charred. But it’s at least edible, which seems to be the point of this whole exercise. Though, honestly Pratt’s thankful when Jacob pulls out a Tupperware of rice to go with the fish.

“Hey, Jacob, there’s something I still need to talk to you about...from Halloween.”

Jacob looks over at him from across the fire, already putting itself out. “What about it?”

“I...I felt like I was being watched, the whole time. That people were watching us from the ranch.”

“Probably were,” Jacob concedes, “Gary Fairgrave and my brother we’re making quite the scene.”

Pratt doesn’t point out that Jacob was part of that scene too. However silent, he undoubtedly tipped the balance of that argument in John’s favor. At least until Pratt and the Sheriff arrived.

“It felt weird, Jacob. They’re...okay yeah they’re people. But uh, why does everyone in your brother’s church act so _weird_?”

“You ever spend much time with converts?” Jacob asks.

Pratt can’t say that he has. In Hope, there are Catholic families like his and Protestants like Caleb’s. And a whole mess of religious fringey types who mostly walk to the beat of their own out-of-sync drums. But nothing organized like Joseph’s church.

“Something happens, when you choose your religion, rather than go along with the one you were born into. Getting god through your parents, it’s different. It’s already part of the fibers of who you think you are. But converts, they gotta wear their new beliefs like a mantle, show them off to everybody. Let them know how saved they are. I notice it too. But ain’t no harm.”

“And what about you?” Pratt scoots over closer to Jacob, fishing out his dog tags from under his hoodie. BAPTIST stamped into the metal.

Jacob wraps his hand around Pratt’s, “Asked me what to put on them. Gave the only answer I ever knew. Even if it was the same hand that beat me and my brothers down.”

“If you were asked now, what would you say?” Pratt asks.

Jacob admits, “Nothing.”

Before heading back to the bridge, the fuck in the back of Jacob’s cab. Jacob on his hands and knees, barely able to fit across the back seat, with Pratt leaning forward as to not hit his head against the roof as he pushes in. After they’ve finished, Jacob growls at Pratt to clean up the mess they made, shoving his face against the upholstery and making him lick up Jacob’s come. It’s so fucking hot that Pratt manages to get hard again. Jacob sucks him off and showers him with praise. So good. So perfect. Only you.


	17. Chapter 17

The Hudsons invite Pratt and his mother for Christmas. Well, really for the 23rd, since both Staci and Joey have to work both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Froelich has finally left the county, and they’re short a deputy. And Gilmore has her approximately 37 children to mind over the holiday.

There’s absolutely no way Pratt can get out of it. His mom has already spoke to Whitehorse to make sure that both he and Joey have the evening off. At least his mom stops short of trying to dress him, when he shows up at her house in a faded flannel and jeans starting to go threadbare at the knees. If he has to do this, he at least wants to be comfortable.

The saving grace, of course, is that Joey looks even more uncomfortable. Somehow, they’ve managed to almost exactly coordinate their outfits, and in a fit of nihilistic glee, Pratt actually waves at her across the room, half-shouting “same flannel!”

Maria, who has a wine glass in one hand, rolls her eyes at the both of them. Natalia, the middle Hudson daughter, comes in from the kitchen, soft, pretty waves of hair cascading down her shoulders. All of the Hudson girls are just...stupidly pretty. Staci just hopes that his mom doesn’t comment about it over dinner.

Joey tugs him by the shirt into the kitchen, where her mother is checking on the ham. Everything is precisely timed already, and Mrs. Hudson doesn’t want any help at all with preparations. Least of all from the Pratts, who are supposed to be her guests tonight.

Joey fills up a glass with wine and shoves it in Pratt’s direction. Then she tells her mother that they’re going upstairs. Pratt follows Joey back out to the living room, the double-hinged door swinging shut sharply behind them, then up the stairs, without making eye contact with anyone else.

They head straight to Joey’s childhood room. Her parents had an extension put on the house when they were kids so each of the girls could have their own space.

Joey’s room is still decorated with toy horses, posters she bought online from NASA, and a bedspread faded by the sunlight that would come in through her second-floor window, dimming the royal hue to powder blue. There’s a wooden desk in one corner of the room, but no chair to go with it. Probably commandeered for a room and table that someone actually still uses.

She flops down on the bed, cursing when she spills wine on her jeans. But it’s white and no one will notice once it dries.

“Things going that well without me, huh?” Pratt jokes, taking a long drink from his glass. He carefully sits down beside her.

“I have two sisters, you know? Two lovely, straight sisters,” she groans.

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

Finishing off her glass of wine, she flops back onto the mattress. There are still stars affixed to the ceiling, but they’re too old to glow anymore. The plastic has gone a sort of slickly yellow, and Pratt guesses they’re probably brittle to the touch.

“I’m thinking about just telling them…” Joey says, covering her eyes with one hand. 

Pratt reaches over to grab the empty glass from her hand, setting it carefully on the floor. Her room smells like dust and stale perfume. Like there’s a bottle of it cracked somewhere behind the dresser.

“How do you think they’ll take it?” Pratt asks.

Joey admits, “God...I don’t know. I want to believe that they love me. That it doesn’t matter. That, I don’t know,” she laughs bitterly, “all their questions about when I’m gonna find a husband will just switch over to where’s my wife?”

Pratt wants that too, if he ever tells his mother.

“But I don’t know,” Joey sighs, “what if it matters. What if it matters a lot?”

Pratt can’t recall any snide comments from the Hudsons when he was growing up. He knows his own mother hasn’t said anything to his face. But the thing is, he doesn’t think that his mom thinks very much about gay people. It’s just...not something on her radar. That's probably the only reason why, when there were rumors about him last year, she remains oblivious to them. She’s never even considered the possibility that Pratt could be with a man.

“I don’t know either,” Pratt says, resting his hand on Joey’s thigh. “But...I’m on your side,” he says, “no matter what.”

She puts her hand over his, “Thank you, Staci.”

Mr. Hudson calls for them to come downstairs. Dinner is ready and everyone is waiting on them. Pratt grabs both wine glasses, letting Joey lead the way to the dining room.

—

Jacob calls him while he’s on shift Christmas Day. Davies and Joey are out in the cruiser, Pratt waiting in the wings for the next call out. When his phone rings, Caleb - New, he grabs his jacket and tells Whitehorse that if he needs him, he’ll just be in his car.

It’s so bitterly cold that Pratt turns on the engine so the heat will run. The inside of his car is still a little warm from his drive into the station. He picked up the call in the parking lot, but doesn’t say anything until he’s safely behind closed doors.

“Hey,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Need to see you, soon.” Jacob sounds exhausted. “When do you have some time?”

“Um, hold on,” he has to check his calendar, looking for when he’ll next be home overnight. “I get off work at 8pm on the 27th, don’t go on shift until noon the 28th?”

“You know Linero Building Supplies?”

“Yeah,” Pratt’s not sure of the exact location. But he knows it’s up in the Whitetails. Not too far from the Veterans Center. He’ll be able to find it without a map or exact directions. 

“Come right after work.”

“It’ll be early still…” Pratt wants to make sure that Jacob is thinking this through. He doesn’t bother asking what happened to Linero. John definitely bought it up.

“Doesn’t matter. Place is clear until next week. I’ll be waiting.”

—

There’s another fatal car accident, on Christmas night. Four bodies. The McNeills. Husband, wife, two kids. Slid off the mountain road on their way back down from grandpa’s. Tumbled down the rocky cliff until they landed on the main road, some fifty feet below.

Pratt thinks that at least seeing the tiny, torn bodies should do something to him. The kids have fair hair and glassy eyes. They look like dolls covered in jam. He wants to gouge their eyes out, so they’ll stop looking back at him. Wondering why, oh why, does Staci Pratt not care that they are dead?

—

Pratt drives into the Linero parking lot, weaving in between stacked pallets and big, concrete cylinders, rows of sheet metal and giant spoils of steel chain. It looks like when John bought the property, he got all the materials with it. Pratt doesn’t want to consider how much that cost, how easily John can buy up an entire company on a whim.

He finds Jacob’s truck parked next to one of the office trailers. He doesn’t hesitate parking next to him. Presumably, Jacob is inside the office. Pratt can just tell that there is a light inside from the tiny little window set into the door.

Walking up the temporary wooden ramp, Pratt doesn’t know if he’s supposed to knock at the door or call Jacob or what. As he reaches the door, it swings open, Jacob in a red flannel and jeans. His eyes are red, hair unkempt, face splotchy in places it wasn’t before. He looks like shit. And Pratt tells him as much.

“Didn’t realize, Peaches. Joe doesn’t allow mirrors.”

For a second Pratt almost believes him, because he’ll, admittedly, believe just about anything regarding Joseph at this point. Jacob steps aside to let Pratt in, locking the trailer door behind them.

“You sounded bad on the phone too,” Pratt hopes this time his concern bleeds through, and not just his bratty critique of Jacob’s appearance. 

Jacob pushes him back towards the couch, grabbing at the zipper on Pratt’s coat. Pratt helps him along in stripping down, until he reaches the white shirt on underneath. The trailer is cooler than would be totally comfortable naked, and Pratt shivers until Jacob wraps his arms around him tight.

Kissing into Pratt’s hair, he asks if Pratt is _good_? Pratt isn’t entirely certain what Jacob is asking. If he’s going to be good for Jacob, or if he’s good in other contexts.

“I’ve missed you,” Pratt says, because he’s at least certain of that.

They tumble onto the couch, though they’re much too tall to fit comfortably. Pratt sometimes forgets that he isn’t actually that much shorter than Jacob. Just a few inches. Jacob just _feels_ much bigger. And it’s obvious when they’re pressed chest to chest, limbs tangled together.

Jacob kisses him until his breathless, dizzy from the lack of air. He wraps one hand firmly around Pratt’s hip, kneading the skin underneath. In between his littered affections, Jacob says he _needs_ him. 

The only position that will really work is Jacob sitting up on the couch while Pratt rides him. Stripping out of their jeans, they both leave their tees on. Jacob wants to take the time to stretch him, grabbing the packets of lube he brought from his pants pocket. Pratt straddles him, arms wrapped around Jacob’s shoulders as he works his fingers inside.

Pratt promises Jacob that he’ll always come for him. Be there when he needs this. Jacob kisses over Pratt’s sternum, crooking his fingers and driving deep until Pratt gasps. Once they’re both satisfied that Pratt is open and wet enough, Pratt starts to sink down onto Jacob’s cock. The head stretches him wide, the familiar burn settling along his skin.

Jacob tells him he’s pretty like this. Split open on his cock, hair a mess, lips kiss-bitten. Jacob tells him that he’d keep him, if he could. Dancing around that fantasy they brushed against months ago. Looked good with leather around his throat. Such a perfect little cockslut.

By the time they’re done, Jacob’s shirt is ruined and so is Pratt’s ass. His thighs burn from exertion. Jacob helps him off, hands around Pratt’s waist, guiding him back to the couch. Jacob drags him until his ass hangs off the edge, sinking to the floor himself and pulling Pratt’s knees over his shoulders. He licks against Pratt’s hole, wrecked and sloppy with his come. The gentle brush of Jacob’s tongue sends static across Pratt’s skin.

Pratt doesn’t even think about where Jacob’s mouth has been when he gets up off the floor and kisses him. They settle in together on the couch, Jacob with his back against the armrest and Pratt sprawled out across his chest. It’s easier to lay on his stomach, and keep pressure off his ass.

There’s a little tube television on the table across from the couch. No cable, just the four broadcast channels that reach Hope County. Together, they watch the evening news.

“Checked the whole place,” Jacob plays with Pratt’s hair. It’s dirty, been three days since he last washed it, and when Jacob tugs at it, it stays in place where he’s styled it. “No beds. But I don’t have to be back at the center until the morning.”

“It’s okay,” Pratt says, “I want to stay…”

Jacob has sleeping bags in his trunk. At least then, they can spread out a little, rather than stay crammed on the couch. Pratt waits for him to come back, watching the television transition from the evening news to re-runs of situation comedies older than him.

Jacob returns with two sleeping bags and goes about zipping them together to make one large bag. He tells Pratt that there is food in the fridge, since he probably didn’t have a chance to eat dinner.

There’s no stove to warm up the pre-cooked bison patties, but even cold, they’re still delicious. Pratt asks Jacob if he wants any. Jacob declines, saying that he ate before Pratt arrived.

Stomach full and overall satiated, Pratt crawls into the sleeping bag. He’s tired from his shift and sex with Jacob always gets him a little drowsy. Jacob has positioned the sleeping bags so he can still sit up against the edge of the couch and watch tv, while Pratt crawls into bed at his side. He pets Pratt’s hair as he starts to fade out. 

Pratt’s already come to the conclusion that Jacob doesn’t sleep well. The noise from the television doesn’t bother him. Neither does the light at the other end of the trailer. Yet, he’s drowsy enough to ask, “Do you have nightmares?”

Next to him, Jacob hums, “Something like that.”

“That why you look so rough?” Whatever it is that Jacob is going through, Pratt wants to help. In whatever small way he can.

“No,” Jacob says. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Jacob’s eyes drift closed, “I think you should reconsider joining Eden’s Gate…”

“No,” Pratt isn’t budging on this one. “No, Jacob.”

“I want...nevermind.”

After that, Pratt feigns sleep.

—

In January, they go pronghorn hunting. Jacob comments that Pratt has gotten better with the bow, landing his first arrow of the morning squarely between their prey’s ribs. Pratt admits that he’s gone to the shooting range a few times to practice. With a little more experience, he’s gotten better at mentally calculating the arrow’s trajectory before letting it fly. Surprising, though, that so much of it translates over to moving targets. He wasn’t expecting that.

Though, as much praise as Jacob offers, he slips his critiques in too. The one that stands out the most to Pratt is when he mentions that they could spend more time training, if they had a legitimate reason to go hunting together.

“I get it, Jacob, you’re not allowed to have friends,” Pratt rolls his eyes.

“One day those are going to fall straight out of your skull,” Jacob comments, putting his gloved hands over top of Pratt’s face, presumably to hold his eyeballs in.

“Yeah because you’re excellent at hiding your disdain. Really though,” Pratt’s thinks he might have touched against a sore spot. “You have friends, right?” He grabs hold of Jacob’s wrist in both his hands, dragging his arm away from his face.

Jacob seems to consider that for a moment. “I have people at the Center who respect me, who do good work. But...I don’t know, Peaches, fuck. None of them hang around for _me_. So what does it matter?”

“But even if they’re Joseph’s parishioners, you’re the one they turn to, right? You spend more time with them than Joseph does. Even if you like the priest, you still shoot the shit with the guy next to you in the pew. You still join a church for the community,” at least that’s how Pratt has always understood it. That’s why he still calls himself a Catholic, even if he can’t go in for the production of it all anymore.

Jacob shakes his head, “Come on, we need to cook this meat.”

Pratt scoffs, he thought he already passed the cooking trial. But apparently not.

While the meat is roasting, they spread out across Jacob’s sleeping bag, to keep the snow off their asses. Pratt leans against Jacob’s side, Jacob’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. As much as he might have complained about going hunting in winter, rather than just having a nice, warm encounter at Pratt’s place, he likes being able to spend time with Jacob. Even if he’s still fixated on these ‘survival’ activities, Pratt sort of gets the sense that this is what Jacob would want to be doing with him anyway, even if they were more open about their relationship. That Jacob likes being outside, likes teaching Pratt what he knows.

The meat is fairly tough, but it’s at least cooked all the way through when they have their lunch. And, hey, the advantage of it being dry is they don’t get any juices on Jacob’s sleeping bag.

“You know, I’m your friend, right?” Pratt asks, as they’re packing up to head back to their cars.

Jacob grunts, “Are you now? And here I thought you only liked me for my dick.”

“Yeah, well, the dick is nice, and your fingers, and mouth, except when you’re talking,” he jokes, “you’ve got lots of redeeming qualities.” He bumps his shoulder into Jacob’s “Really though, um, I like you.” That’s about the best he can manage now. 

“Well, fancy that,” Jacob smiles, heading down the mountain.


	18. Chapter 18

Whitehorse sends Pratt home, calls in Davies instead. The Sheriff is already pulling on his coat, barking at Pratt to go home now, come back at 8pm, when Davies was supposed to come on shift. It’s 10am now.

“What’s going on?” Joey asks, hopping to her feet and following after Whitehorse.

“Get in the cruiser, Hudson. I’ll explain on the way.”

Pratt is left shell-shocked in the office, now quiet other than Nancy’s voice drifting from the opposite end of the bullpen. She’s on a personal call, not the dispatch line. Whatever Whitehorse is responding to, must have come directly to his office phone.

He pulls on his jacket, heading back to his civic. He’s got to figure out a way to sleep for at least a couple of hours, before coming back this evening. If Whitehorse wanted him to switch shifts with Davies...that would be fine. But a little more warning would have been nice. Or at least an explanation about why Pratt wasn’t suitable for whatever the fuck it is they’re responding to.

Pratt makes it home, strips out of his uniform, and climbs back into bed. Unsurprisingly, he can’t get back to sleep. Grabbing his phone, he plays through the two lives he accumulated in candy crush on his drive home, then settles on calling Jacob, even though he doesn’t think he’ll pick up.

The phone goes straight to voicemail. Pratt doesn’t leave a message. He finally falls asleep around noon. His alarm goes off at seven, leaving him just enough time to stuff some food in his face and get back on shift.

Glancing at his phone, he finds six texts from Joey. Sleeping through texts is way easier than the phone ringing, so he’s not really surprised he missed them. He scrolls all the way up to the first message.

_Staci we need to talk_   
_you never fucked Seed_

The blood drains from Pratt’s face

_right?_   
_promise me you didn’t call him_   
_but call me now_   
_before you go in_

The last fucking thing he wants to do is call Joey now. He’s sweating bullets, hands shaking around his phone. Not calling would be worse. Then he would have to face Joey’s wrath in person. Hell, she might even drive her whole ass back to work, just to murder him.

He doesn’t want to, but he hits the call button next to Joey’s number. The phone only rings twice before she picks up.

“Joey?”

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” Joey hisses.

“Joey...I….”

“Did you fuck John Seed?”

 _John, John, John,_ she thinks this is about John. What the hell happened this morning? Was it another incident with the Seeds? It must have been. Why else would Joey be asking about John?

“No,” Pratt nearly shrieks, “I did not fuck John Seed, god Jesus fuck, Joey. No. Absolutely not.”

Her breath on the other end of the line is shaky, “Okay, okay I believe you...just….”

“What was that about today?” he’s going to be late if he doesn’t move. He pulls on his coat, keeping his phone pressed to his ear.

“We got called out to one of the farms John purchased….there were all these….cages. Kennels I guess. For dogs, maybe. But there weren’t any dogs. God, I can’t talk about this on the phone, okay. You get off shift at 6am, right?”

“Yeah,” Pratt locks the door behind him, ready to get into his car.

“I’m gonna get some sleep, but we’ll meet at yours, okay. I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Okay, okay,” Pratt puts his car into reverse.

Joey hangs up on him.

—

The night shift is uneventful. He’s on time, and Whitehorse is already gone for the evening. Gilmore got in at six when Joey left. They need more fucking deputies. Losing Froelich means they’ve got nothing in terms of cover. Whitehorse has got to hire someone.

As he’s pulling back into Silverlake after his shift has ended, he sees Joey’s car parked in his usual spot. He pulls into the space next to her and hops out of the car. She’s seated on his front step, the blue light on her vape glowing in the darkness. It’s still an hour before dawn.

“Hey,” he says, getting the door for her.

She exhales, a puff of vapor swirling around her head and dips inside.

Already knowing where the light switch is, she turns them on and heads for the couch. Flopping down, she says she could use a drink if they’re going to get into this. She was barely able to sleep.

Pratt pulls two Stellas from the fridge, because at least at home, he’s still going to be as fussy as he likes about what he drinks. Uncapping both, he hands one off to Joey and sits next to her on the couch.

“Okay,” she huffs, “where to start...Whitehorse never told me who called about the cages. But whoever it was...thought that the peggies were keeping _people_ in them.”

Pratt realizes now he’s heard “peggie” before in passing, but never put two and two together. PEG, Project at Eden’s Gate, that’s the name Joseph’s church is registered under.

“Shipped a whole truck into the Valley,” Joey continues, “looked like they came down from the north. The caller saw...them unloading the truck and putting the cages into the barn. We had probable cause for the search.” She keeps on choking the neck of her bottle. “The cages were all stacked up, but empty. I got the weirdest fucking feeling about them, though. Whitehorse asked the guy at the farm about them, what they were for, how long they had been there. Then fucking, John Seed pulled up. Calm as can be, asking us if there’s anything he could help with. But we didn’t have anything other than this call to go on. Nothing in the cages….but god, the cages. I felt it, Stace, something’s not right. I felt like...people were watching us from the farmhouse.”

Pratt nods. She already knows about the call out to the Seed Ranch on Halloween. Even if Pratt hadn’t told her, she probably would have heard from Mary May. But there are details that Pratt left out. “When I was at John’s ranch, I kind of felt the same. Like they were in every window. It creeped me out.”

She shakes her head, “John Seed _asked_ about you. If you were the one in the cruiser watching the property from the other side of the road. Whitehorse didn’t tell him anything. He just asked what the cages were for. He said that they’re for dogs. That his brother was coming to pick them up later.”

“Which brother?” Pratt asks, but maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Whitehorse didn’t ask. But, god, Stace, why is John Seed asking about _you_.”

He snaps, “I told you Joey, I don’t have anything to do with him. The last time I even saw John Seed was that night at the ranch.” He has to calm the fuck down. John _knows_ , he has to know. Why else would he possibly ask about him? 

“Okay, sorry, fuck,” she buries her face in her hands. “I’m just stressed out about this. I’m worried about _you_. Just, be careful, okay. Something isn’t right with the Seeds.”

Pratt needs to talk to Jacob

—

He puts off calling Jacob, making excuses to himself. Too tired. Jacob won’t pick up anyway. He hasn’t gotten him a gift yet for his birthday. And though Jacob probably doesn’t expect anything from Pratt, he still feels like he should. He orders a set of six specialty baits online, designed for bass. This way he can joke about the one fish that lives in the pond getting its pick of shiny, silicone delights.

The package comes and Pratt doesn’t take it out of the shipping box, the sad, beat up brown cardboard package sitting in the center of his kitchen table like a goddamn bomb.

Jacob doesn’t call him either. So Pratt isn’t the only one at fault when Jacob’s birthday passes. 

Three days after Jacob’s missed birthday, Pratt calls. Jacob doesn’t pick up. But he calls later that evening, just as Pratt starts dozing off on the couch.

“Hello?” Pratt has to cough to clear his airways.

“Peaches…”

“Happy birthday,” Pratt interjects, before Jacob can say anything else. He feels bad about it now. That he was too scared to call before. Worried that in confronting Jacob, somehow he might make things worse. But Jacob himself said he doesn’t have any friends. And it doesn’t matter how good the sex is, if Pratt can’t put aside his own anxieties and call his goddamn boyfriend, he’s doing a shitty job.

Jacob laughs, low and short. He’s not angry. Exasperated, maybe, exhausted. “Thanks, Peaches.”

“I should have called earlier,” he keeps the phone pressed to his ear as he rolls from his side onto his back. “But, um, god, Joey told me something weird.”

“Joey Hudson, right? Your friend?”

“Yeah. That’s her...she was with the Sheriff on this call out to one of John’s properties...John...asked about me….does he know?”

“No,” Jacob responds without hesitation, then lets out a shaky breath. “Goddamnit, if it’s not one of my foolass brothers it’s the other one…” something in Jacob’s room creaks. The mattress springs, maybe. “When can I see you again?”

“Uh, day or overnight or?”

“Whatever’s soonest.”

Pratt laughs, “Now?” Not expecting Jacob to really consider it.

“When do you go back on shift?”

“Six am,” Pratt pulls his phone away from his ear to check the time, it’s 2:08.

“Go back to sleep, I’m leaving now.”

“Oh,” Pratt says, but Jacob has already hung up the phone.

He manages to nod off while he waits for Jacob, still curled up on the couch, rather than in his bed. Doesn’t make that much difference. He never got around to replacing his twin mattress with something bigger. When Jacob stopped coming to Silverlake, Pratt just didn’t see the point of spending the money. 

Jacob knocks at his door upon arrival, stirring Pratt from the lull between wakefulness and dreams. He can’t remember what the scene his subconscious rendered was. Only that he was cold.

He hurries to the door to let Jacob inside, not bothering to check and confirm that it’s him. Once inside, Jacob wastes no time grabbing Pratt by the hips, shoving him back into the living room, the door slamming shut behind them.

They rut together on the couch for several minutes, Jacob’s hood still up, latching his mouth over Pratt’s lips, his jaw, his neck. Biting down hard until Pratt wheezes out to be careful about leaving marks.

“What if I want to mark you up, Peaches? You really gonna tell me no?” He thrusts his hips hard into the apex of Pratt’s thighs, grinding their cocks together. “You gonna tell me that I can’t claim what’s _mine?_ ”

Pratt groans, digging his fingers in hard at Jacob’s shoulders. God, that’s hot. How could he even go to work, neck littered with Jacob’s bruises, dark and angry, muddying up his skin? How could he face his mother, the Sheriff, Joey? 

“I think you want the whole fucking county to know,” Pratt growls, wrapping one hand around the back of Jacob’s neck. “What a goddamn cocksucker you are. You want them to know how hungry you are for my dick.”

Jacob smiles back, “big words from a man about to come in his pants from a little heavy petting,” Jacob twists just enough to make Pratt groan at the friction. “But not yet,” he scrapes his teeth across Pratt’s throat again, “you don’t come unless I’m inside that pussy of yours.”

The lube is in the bedroom, which is currently very, very far away. But Jacob hoists him up by his armpits, slapping his ass and telling him to get in there. Pratt hisses back at Jacob that he doesn’t take orders from him. And the feral smile that Jacob gives him in return is enough to make his goddamn cock ache.

Jacob get his hand in the drawer, tossing the bottle of lube at Pratt. He barely manages to catch the bottle before it smashes hm in the face. “Open yourself up, Peaches. Show me how bad you want this,” he grabs the front of his jeans, pulling the fabric tight around the outline of his erection.

“Don’t need it as bad as you think,” Pratt says, dropping his jeans and boxers to the floor. He steps out of them, kicking the discarded clothing aside, in the general vicinity of his laundry pile. “Could do just fine without you,” Pratt sneers.

Pratt doesn’t bother getting into bed. Wetting his fingers with the lube, he braces his other arm against the wall, leaning forward slightly and arching his back to stick his ass out. If Jacob wants to watch, Pratt is going to give him a fucking show.

Reaching around with his lubed fingers, he shoves two of them into his ass at once, exaggerating the hiss that escapes from between his teeth. He bucks back onto his own fingers, sinking them down to the webbing, dragging them back out. Even staring at the wall, he can feel Jacob’s eyes on him, watching as he plunges his fingers into his hole, getting it sloppy and wet and ready for Jacob’s cock.

“You’re a tease,” Jacob says, running his hand from Pratt’s neck down the center of his spine, coming to rest just over his tailbone.

“You said you wanted to, ah, watch.” Pratt spreads his legs a little more, pushing his ass further out so that when he fingers himself, his knuckles rub against Jacob’s crotch.

Reaching around, Jacob wraps his hand loosely around Pratt’s cock, giving him a slow, loose stroke. Still, the little bit of warm friction from Jacob’s hand almost sends him reeling. Jacob is right, after all, he’s Jacob’s fucking slut.

Starting to feel decently stretched, he slips a third finger in with the other two. He doesn’t hold back the groan that falls from his lips, just keeps on fucking himself on his own hand, until Jacob is the one to give in.

“Show me that pussy,” Jacob growls, dropping to his knees behind Pratt. He grabs both sides of Pratt’s ass, pulling them apart so he can look directly at his hole as Pratt pulls his fingers out. Pratt starts to smear his messy fingers across Jacob’s face, only to have Jacob grab his wrist and shove his fingers into his mouth and suck. 

Jacob releases Pratt’s fingers and then spits directly onto his hole instead. Using his thick thumb, he pushes into Pratt’s hole, as if testing the merchandise before he decides to buy. He wraps one arm around Pratt’s waist, dragging him away from the wall. “Grab your ankles,” he says, shoving Pratt down by his neck.

It’s fairly easy for Pratt to bend over and grip his ankles, especially with his legs spread. What he’s unsure of is whether or not he’s going to be able to maintain his balance once Jacob starts fucking into him. Even so, Pratt does as he’s told, leaving himself exposed to Jacob’s whims.

Jacob holds him steady as he starts to slide his cock into Pratt’s ass. The position is strange, making Pratt feel impossibly full with only half of Jacob’s cock sheathed inside. He takes a deep breath when he expects to feel Jacob push again, this time rougher, with more intent. Pratt is gonna _take_ it. Jacob is going to _make_ him.

“Look at how pretty you are,” Jacob rubs his hand over Pratt’s back. “Showing off your assets like a prize pig.” He reaches around to grab Pratt’s dick. With his hands still firmly wrapped around his ankles, Pratt can’t touch himself. “All trussed up, just waiting to get stuffed full of cock.” The pressure tightens around Pratt’s dick. And god, he realizes now that Jacob still isn’t all the way inside. Still hasn’t given him the last few inches. “Didn’t even have to tie you up, Peaches. You just held real still like the good bitch we both know you are.

Jacob’s grip on Pratt’s hips stays firm as he thrusts the rest of the way inside, until Pratt can feel his pubes brushing against his ass. He mutters out a little “shit” and screws his eyes shut, hands tensing around his ankles as he waits for Jacob to move again.

If Jacob tries to go at him too hard, Pratt’s pretty sure he’ll topple over. Even now, he’s starting to cramp up a little, from keeping his legs stretched in this position and his spine bent. Jacob’s rocking into him at a pace that is torturously slow. And while his cock might feel amazing, the rest of Pratt fucking aches. Wants to be called _good_ again, though, doesn’t want to show Jacob any sign of weakness. Along with his speed, Pratt’s flexibility is one of the physical attributes he’s got up on Jacob.

“That’s enough,” Jacob slaps Pratt’s ass, hard with his open palm. Pratt groans, not knowing if that means he should let go and stand up straight.

Jacob tugs him up, turning him around so that they’re standing face to face. Smiling down at Pratt, Jacob mouths, ‘good,” pets his hair, tells him to get onto the bed. However he wants it, Jacob will give it to him. “I’ll take care of you.”

They end up with Pratt on his back, ankles locked tight around Jacob’s back as he plows into him. Their skin slaps together lewdly as Pratt tears at Jacob’s hair, whining that he wants it, wants it hard and fast and fucking raw. Wants Jacob to coat his insides with his come. Wants to get fucking _bred_. Jacob can’t even find the space to talk back at that, planting his hands on either side of Pratt’s body and driving in.

Afterwards, Pratt lets the afterglow hang in the room, tucked in against Jacob’s chest. He takes a patch of Jacob’s fine, bright red chest hair between his thumb and forefinger, twisting the strands together tightly until the follicles pull at Jacob’s skin. Jacob slaps his hand and tells him to stop it. 

Pratt can’t put this off anymore. “You knew about the Sheriff and Joey going to the barn…”

“Mm, I did,” Jacob says, tightening his arm around Pratt’s shoulders, “when the cages got shipped there.”

Pratt’s stomach flips, trying to break the confines of his abdomen. There are answers he doesn’t want to have. “What was in the cages, Jacob?”

“I needed them for the wolves.”

Pratt lifts his head to look properly at Jacob, “What?”

“Wolves,” Jacob repeats, “I’ve had some of my people trapping wolves. Not that many. Shouldn’t impact the population.”

“Why the fuck are you trapping wolves? You need a permit for that.”

“John got a permit. I’m trying to train them. But it’s taking time. I need to be able to restrain them until they’re ready.” 

“You can’t just...take wild wolves and have them behave like domestic dogs.”

“If I wanted dogs, I would get dogs,” Jacob huffs, “you saw the one I already have trained. My method works.”

This still doesn’t sit right with Pratt. He had his suspicions about that “dog,” and now they’re confirmed. The beast seemed well enough behaved, the two times Pratt saw it. But there are enough cases of dumbasses thinking that they can turn a wild animal into a pet, only to have their new furry ‘friend’ turn on them, that Pratt knows Jacob shouldn’t be doing this. He’s putting himself at risk. Jacob is going to get hurt.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Jacob. You have more sense than this. Fucking around with wolves is a bad idea. You shouldn’t even have the one.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Jacob insists. “If only you could be there to help me…”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Pratt bites, rolling away from Jacob and onto his back. He’s not going to be able to talk Jacob out of this idea. And if John already secured permits for the capture of the wolves, there’s nothing that Pratt can do on that front. If Jacob is so keen on losing an appendage, that’s his fucking problem. Pratt can just hope it’s not his dick that ends up scarfed down by some predator he’s pissed off. He _likes_ Jacob’s dick.

“Consider it,” Jacob says, getting out of bed.

Pratt stays exactly where he fucking is, listening to Jacob clatter around in the kitchen. From the sound of plastic wrapping being torn away, it looks like he found the package of chicken breasts Pratt bought a couple of days ago. Pratt was going to bake them in the oven, but he hears Jacob fighting with the stove, the familiar sound of oil crackling in a hot pan follows not long after. 

Jacob comes and retrieves him when everything is ready. Pratt had nodded off a bit while he was cooking. Jacob’s features soft, he tells Pratt that he “better eat it while still warm.”

He stumbles around the bedroom looking for clothes to tug on, his boxers, a shirt from two days ago, Jacob’s hoodie. The chicken smells really good, even if the only thing he had to go with it was wheat toast and butter. There’s rice in the pantry but maybe Jacob figured that would take too long. 

Half sitting on his foot, Pratt keeps his ass slightly elevated to compensate for the soreness radiating through him still. At this point, he’s accepted that the only way he’s going to be able to comfortably take Jacob’s dick when he does show up is by buying a toy to stretch himself more regularly. And god, while he knows packages from sex shops are supposed to be discrete or whatever, he still can’t bring himself to order anything. His fingers are alright when he beats off and he doesn’t actually think he wants to fuck himself on some silicone dick. Most of his enjoyment comes from the other things that Jacob does when they fuck.

“Oh,” putting his fork down, Pratt remembers, “I bought you a birthday gift.”

Jacob doesn’t even mumble that he shouldn’t have bothered. They’re kind of past that point. Yeah, there are couple things that are never going to be for them. Would their anniversary be the thigh-fucking in March when Pratt was home for spring break? The barn when Jacob literally destroyed his ass and then made him walk a mile and a half home to his terribly concerned mother? The first time he came to Silverlake, Pratt rode him, and cooked him breakfast after?

That last one sounds the least fucking perverse, the most ‘normal,’ but it doesn’t quite ring true.

And they’ve never so much thought about Valentine’s Day. At least, Pratt hasn’t. Maybe just because the date is so close to Jacob’s birthday anyway. Though Pratt just thinks that maybe they’re not very romantic. They don’t get other holidays either because that means being seen in front of their families. And no one knows. No one can know. Not even Joey for all her careful reassurances that she’s got Pratt’s back. She never really expressed any opinion about Jacob, other than some off-hand comments about his appearance and/or attitude. Even when she says that he looks “terrifying,” her tone is generally value-neutral. Like someone might comment about the weather, the sky is blue, the sun is out, and Jacob Seed looks like he could break a moose in half.

Well, that’s part of the appeal, right?

The point is, there is a lot, _a lot_ of shit off the table for them. Especially since Pratt is trying to cram himself back into the closet and Jacob never did fall out. At least not in Hope County. So giving each other little gifts on their birthdays is one concession they get to fucking keep.

Jacob takes the wooden box from Pratt’s hands, sliding of the hastily tied green ribbon that Pratt wound around the box. Opening the hinge, Jacob gets a look at the lures, poking each one of them with his fingers. “We should go fishing again, try them out.”

“Yeah,” Pratt responds, “maybe our fish got some friends over the winter.”

“Maybe I’ll stock the pond,” Jacob says. That’s actually a decent idea, though there’s no guarantee that the fish will take to it. There’s probably a reason why the pond is empty in the first place.

Jacob sighs, saying that he has to get back.

“To the Veterans Center?” Pratt asks. He picks up their plates. Doesn’t need to wash them right now. They can wait until tomorrow.

Jacob hums, “No, John’s Ranch. He’s been...difficult, as of late.” With the dishes taken care of, he starts to unzip his hoodie, taking it off of Pratt’s shoulders. 

Pratt snickers, “I don’t know how you could tell the difference.”

Jacob smiles at him as he puts his sweatshirt back on.


	19. Chapter 19

Gilmore announces in March that she’s pregnant again, already through the first trimester. And Jesus fucking Christ. Pratt thinks at this point her body would be crying for mercy. This is her fourth in seven years. 

This, of course, creates a scheduling nightmare, though she’ll work for as long as reasonable. For her last pregnancy, she stayed until almost six months in, but some of that was desk duty, and Whitehorse was able to hire Pratt to fill the gap. Right now, they still don’t have a replacement for Froelich. 

Joey groans, slamming her forehead against her desk. Smiling, Gilmore tisks at her, saying that she’s thrilled Hudson is so excited about the baby. Apparently, Joey’s reaction was much the same last time. Pratt’s shift is nearly over, so he congratulates Gilmore with as much sincerity as he can fake.

As he’s heading out the door, Joey sinks down in her swivel chair, pleading, “Kill me now.” Pratt cocks his finger against her temple, saying “bang” and walking out.

—

At the end of March, Pratt sees the mint-green canisters transported across the Henbane for the first time. He instantly recognizes the Eden’s Gate truck. Garish black cross on a white field. Mr. Fairgrave was never able to do anything about it. And no one else even tried. 

He watches from his cruiser, parked on the side of the road, as the truck whizzes by, the canisters strapped securely in the back with black nylon belts. The truck is just under the speed limit as it passes. No good reason to pull them over.

—

Jacob said they’d go fishing, but instead, he wants to practice hand to hand. Pratt isn’t about to complain, because even if he gets his ass handed to him again, Jacob is gonna handle his ass. 

They still meet by the pond, though, in the early hours of mid-spring morning. Jacob’s skin looks splotchier than normal, his nose slightly red. Pratt teases him about allergies. Jacob mumbles something about Joe conspiring to make his life as hard as humanly possible.

“He’s convinced it’s better to wean ourselves off pharmaceuticals now, rather than wait for supplies to to run out,” Jacob wipes messily at his nose with his jacket sleeve.

Right, this “Collapse” that Jacob and the rest of Joseph’s followers are prepping for, whether or not Jacob believes the spiritual part of it. Pratt knows the Eden’s Gate ideology in bits and pieces, though most of it from hearsay, rather than from Jacob directly.

“I’d think you’d see the logic in that,” Pratt drolls.

“There’s no fucking pollen in a bunker,” Jacob counters.

Even suffering from seasonal allergies, Jacob lays him out three times before Pratt manages to get a good hit in, striking at just the right angle, just quick enough, that Jacob doesn’t have the time to counter properly. He hits at Jacob’s left hip, his weaker side, weaving one arm between Jacob’s legs so that he can grasp his opposite wrist and pull sharply towards him. Jacob tumbles down, back hitting the grass and smiling wide.

“Good.”

Pratt seizes his opportunity, pouncing on top of Jacob, even as he tries to bat Pratt away. He sing-songs that Jacob has lost. Jacob wraps his arms firmly around Pratt’s waist this time, giving in.

“You’ve gotten bigger,” Jacob says.

Pratt knows he means it as a compliment. “I was twenty-one when we met, Jacob. Some guys get taller until they’re like, twenty-five.” Pratt isn’t one of them. He’s checked. He’s still hovering just below six feet, though if asked, he’d give that as his height. But yeah, he’s put on some weight, his chest cavity looks, he doesn’t know how to explain it, deeper? The measurement around his chest and waist a little bigger than when he was in college. He’s pretty sure he’s not getting any larger now, except if he were to put on more weight. But it also feels like it’s easier to hold on to muscle, whereas before, no matter how hard he tried, it would just melt back off.

“Suits you,” Jacob sticks his hands under Pratt’s flannel, the black and green one he’s grown kind of fond of. The buttons are a little tighter across his chest than when he bought it, but it still fits alright.

They stay distracted with each other for a good long time, hands and mouths, Pratt fingering Jacob’s hole as he comes down his throat. Jacob pulling up Pratt’s shirts to make him spill across his own chest, then telling Pratt to wear it until he gets home later. Jacob’s disgusting, but Pratt is just beyond denying that he’s into it. Into Jacob.

—

“Gilmore,” Whitehorse crosses his arms over his chest, “take Pratt with you to the Jessop Conservatory. Got a call from a friend of the family. She says the parents are out of the country, again. And she hasn’t seen the girl in weeks.”

“Rachel?” Pratt asks, already getting ready to follow Gilmore out.

“That’s the one. Follow Gilmore’s lead here, son. Let’s try not to terrify the poor girl this time.”

At least Pratt can see the logic of deferring to Gilmore on this occasion. She’s the one deputy that can actually fucking talk to people like a normal human being. Pratt has been trying. Really. But he knows that none of his efforts have come off well. First, he fucking heard the rumors about his sexuality loud and clear, and now the locals now shouting that he’s a ‘bitchy douche’ through a goddamn metaphorical megaphone. He gets the damn idea. What everyone passed off before as Pratt’s immaturity has warped into something else. Now, this is just the way Pratt is.

Gilmore is showing more now, even though she’s only at the end of her fourth month. Regulation is to keep their shirts tucked in, but no one is telling her anything about keeping hers loose over her growing bump.

She tosses Pratt the keys before he offers that they take the chopper. The Conservatory is pretty far and there’s a landing zone pretty close. Gilmore agrees and Pratt jogs back into the station to tell Whitehorse they’re flying over.

Gilmore is already buckled in when Pratt returns to the helicopter. He runs through his preflight check, confirming with Gilmore that she’s good and ready. When she gives him a thumbs up, he lifts off, pointing them over towards the Henbane.

The flight is an easy, quiet one. Pratt keeps them pretty low, flying a tight line east towards the edge of the county. There’s never much in terms of air traffic, though there are a handful of people with licenses and birds. Even fewer with planes.

Gilmore is smiling the whole time, watching the scenery pass below them. Gives Pratt this sort of smug pride, that now he’s the only one left who can fly. He sets them down in the LZ, cutting the engine and running through his post-flight. Gilmore hops out of the passenger side, leaning backwards to crack her back. It’s about a quarter mile walk to the Conservatory, not to bad at all and flying in already saved them a bunch of time.

Pratt clips his radio to his hip, content now to keep to Gilmore’s slower pace. Doesn’t take more than a few minutes anyway to reach the Conservatory grounds, though it’s a ways further to the house.

As they pass the open greenhouses, Pratt glances inside. He not looking for anything in particular, just interested if they’re growing anything. The Jessops have been gone for ages. And while Rachel was here last year, he was almost certain that she eventually left to join them in Europe or wherever it is they went. Guess that never happened.

Inside one of the greenhouses, he spots a stack of mint-green canisters. Stout crosses stenciled onto the side. Fucking hell.

The grounds are in greater disrepair than they were last year, and the path is starting to break apart in pieces from the roots that have taken hold beneath the surface, cracking through the stones. Pratt tells Gilmore to be careful to not trip as they make their way to the door.

Gilmore rings the bell and they wait. And wait. And wait. She rings again before stepping back, trying to get a look inside the upstairs windows. Pratt heads to the other end of the porch, pressing his hands against the glass, he curls them around his eyes to keep the light out and try and peer inside. Everything looks dark, in disarray, chairs turned over, vases smashed. Pratt waves Gilmore over to take a look. See if that’s sufficient cause for them to go inside.

“I don’t like this,” Gilmore admits.

The front door creaks and both the deputies take a step back from the window. Pratt expects it to be Rachel. He takes another step back when he sees Joseph Seed, then takes three more steps forward, to put himself in between Joseph and Gilmore. His instinct is to reach for his sidearm, but he stops just short, trying, for once in his goddamn career, not to escalate the situation. 

“Mr. Seed,” Pratt addresses him, his body still coiled tight. Two other men emerge from the house after him. At least neither of them are Jacob. Just peggies, in their cream colored clothes and their hair left long. 

“Deputy Pratt, Deputy Gilmore,” Joseph nods politely at them both. His hair is tied back so tightly, it pulls at his skin, making it look smooth, other than the deep lines around his eyes, partially obscured by his glasses. At least he’s wearing a shirt, a dark vest over a white button down, open to the center of his chest. There’s something over his right collarbone, scratching out part of the swallow inked there. “OTH,” in angry looking slashes. SLOTH, Pratt realizes. To match the GREED etched into his arm. 

Behind Pratt, Gilmore exhales in relief, “Father Joseph, good to see you. Is Rachel Jessop inside?”

Joseph smiles at her, turning back and asking one of his followers to go fetch Rachel. Let her know the Sheriff’s office is concerned about her well-being.

“What are you doing here?” Pratt asks him, still concerned about the preacher’s motives. So many young people seem drawn to him, against the wishes of their parents, seemingly vanishing into thin air. 

Joseph peers at him through tinted lenses. They’re just about the same height. Pratt stands up a little straighter, trying to project authority here. It’s a reasonable enough question.

“The girl is lonely, abandoned by her family, her friends. She sought comfort. She doesn’t have to bear her burdens alone.”

But Rachel Jessop is an addict. Everyone knows as much. Vulnerable, sitting on an expensive piece of land. And yeah, Joseph’s right. She’s all alone here. Maybe they should have tried to do more for her. But you can’t help people who won’t accept it. Whatever she may have accepted from Joseph...maybe it helps her. That doesn’t mean Joseph’s motivation here is altruism.

Rachel emerges from the house, dressed in a scuffed up denim skirt and a blouse that hangs loosely over her thin shoulders. There are dark circles around her pale eyes, hair tied up messily. Her shirtsleeves cover up her arms, but even from her eyes, Pratt can tell she’s not here. She’s gone for the moment.

“Hey Rachel,” Pratt tries to reach her, “Tracey hasn’t seen you in awhile.”

Rachel tilts her head, her vision sharpening, coming out of whatever daze she might have been in. “Then why isn’t she here?”

Pratt doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t know? He wasn’t the one to take the call. 

Gilmore steps forward, and Joseph steps aside to let her pass. She takes Rachel’s hands in both of hers, asking if she’s alright?

Rachel blinks back owlishly, “Yes, I’m fine. Father is helping me through...I...I’m feeling better now.”

“Okay, and you know to call us if you need help, right?” Gilmore assures her.

“Yes, I know.”

Gilmore smiles at her, then at Joseph, saying that they’ll be going now. And Rachel should give Tracey a call. Tell her that she’s doing alright, that she can visit her. Sometimes, this place can be imposing to just up and visit. Rachel nods that she understands and Gilmore gestures at Pratt to follow her out.

But Pratt stays rooted on the porch, watching Joseph, his eyes on him, low lidded and appraising. He doesn’t know. Jacob would have told him if he knew. None of this sits well with Pratt. Can’t Gilmore see that something is wrong here? That Rachel is fucking high with three strange men in her house? That Tracey had good reason to be worried?

Joseph breaks into a slow smile, telling Pratt that he has “such great potential, very clever.” “Good to have suspicions.”

Gilmore shouts at him to move, Whitehorse has another dispatch for them.

—

Jacob calls him, this time asking him directly to attend one of Joseph’s services. Time is running out.

It’s May, and the Valley is getting warm. The last thing that Pratt wants to do is spend an hour in his car on his one day off a week, driving out to the island where Joseph’s compound sits, to have to listen to him squawk about the end of the world. 

“You won’t even get to talk to me,” Pratt argues. “You’ll pretend like you don’t know me.”

“How is that different than any other time?”

“Because,” Pratt repositions himself on the sofa, sticking his feet up on the backrest and turning his head at an uncomfortable angle to watch his queue matchmake him into another round. His last team sucked. “Normally we just don’t see each other. It’s different, being in the same room and having to pretend.” Pratt can count on one hand the number of times they’ve seen each other out in public. Especially since moving out to the Veterans Center, Jacob has stayed out of trouble and out of the public eye. 

“It’s important that you see,” Jacob insists.

“Jesus, fuck,” his round is about to start. Sitting up properly on the couch, he jams the phone between his ear and shoulder, picking up the controller. “Will it get you off my case about this?”

“Yes,” Jacob responds.

“Okay, but you need to answer a question for me.” He doesn’t have his headset on, but he can hear chatter over the earpiece sitting on the couch. No one ever says anything worth listening to in pick-ups anyway. He knows he’s not missing anything. “What was your brother doing at the Jessop Conservatory?”

Jacob is silent for a long moment, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t fuck with me,” he still doesn’t say Jacob’s name aloud when they speak on the phone; Jacob still doesn’t call him anything other than ‘Peaches.’

“I’m not. Despite what you may think, I’m not cataloging every dumbshit plot my brother’s can dream up. Why?”

“There’s a woman there, Rachel, couple years younger than me. Meth problem, maybe coke too, I’m not totally sure, but she’s kind of sweet. Well, she was a bitch in high school.”

“So were you,” Jacob drolls.

“Fuck off, you weren’t even here when I was in high school.” He continues, “Anyway, Joseph was hanging around her, acting kind of weird.”

“He’s not going to hurt her, or take advantage,” Jacob responds.

Pratt mocks, “no, right, that’s John’s M.O., how could I forget.”

“Peaches….” Jacob warns.

He’s crossed a line, maybe, when it comes to his disdain for Jacob’s brothers. But it’s becoming harder to overlook how much Jacob really does for them, or at least allows their shitty, weird behaviors to continue. By doing nothing, he’s letting this continue. Yeah, Pratt is a deputy, he can try to put out fires as they start. But his hands keep getting frustratingly tied up when it comes to handling the Seeds. At least part of that is his own fault. He _is_ literally in bed with one of them.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Pratt huffs, “it’s stressing me out, and I’m worried about her. And that maybe you have rose-tinted glasses when it comes to your brother. As much as you might talk shit about him….people are starting to talk.”

“And what are they saying?” Jacob asks.

Pratt figures he should just go for it, “That your brother is leading a cult.”

On the other end of the line, Jacob laughs, “People can talk all they like, Peaches. Come hear him speak, just this once. And I’ll let up if you don’t think it will work.”

If it’ll work. Because Jacob isn’t asking Pratt to believe. Just disguise himself enough that they can spend more time together. Pratt knows that any sort of conversion isn’t going to happen. It’s entirely outside the realm of possibility. Even as a cover. He cannot break his mother’s heart like that. Even for Jacob. But if it’ll get Jacob off of his case about it. He’ll fucking go.

—

Joseph’s sermons are open to the public. He holds court in the valley on occasion, though now sticking to the properties in John’s name. But mostly, he’s restricting his public appearances to his compound. Though Pratt has seen flyers up in Fall’s End, over by the Whitetail Visitor Center, and at other places that the locals gather. He’s still trying to entice people in, and Pratt knows that people are joining, not everyone, and they don’t all stay. 

As much as the locals might be curious, Pratt is actually under the impression that most of the peggies are outsiders. The first batch arrived with Joseph, as they made the journey from Rome to Hope County. But people have been trickling in the last couple of years. They’re not showing up in official population numbers, as far as Pratt knows. No one is bothering to change their legal residence. If not for the fact they mostly keep to themselves, it would be a bigger problem for the Sheriff’s department, like that truck full of men without a driver’s license between them.

Pratt drives himself out to the island. He’s dressed as plainly as he can manage. It’s too hot to reasonably be wearing a hoodie, but he’s worried about what locals will say if they see a deputy there. He can play it off as simple curiosity. Then again, their motives would be suspect as well, right? God, he just doesn’t fucking want this to come back to his mom.

The only anonymity he’s got to fall back on in the end is that he’s not one to naturally draw attention to himself. Too blindingly average to stand out in a crowd. In a white tee and jeans, he hopes he blends in well enough. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, but that’s par for the course. And fucking hell, why does this feel so strangely like meeting Jacob’s in-laws? He’s crossed paths with John and Joseph plenty of times in the past. He hasn’t seen Faith in over a year, and even then it didn’t really feel like ‘meeting’ her. He only spied on her and Jacob from a distance, and his frame of reference was all wrong. His interpretations of their affections shockingly off the mark.

By the time he arrives, the lot outside of Joseph’s little chapel is choked with vehicles. A good number of them are familiar white trucks, which seem to be standard issue for the peggies at this point. Theirs all have those fucking crosses on them. Pratt checks Jacob’s truck every time to make sure that his doesn’t. 

In between the trucks that obviously belong to the peggies are some pretty standard vehicles, older compacts and sedans, station wagons as old as Pratt, newer suvs and trucks. Nothing too flashy. But then again, the nicest car in the valley probably belongs to John Seed. 

There are people milling about outside, waiting for the service to start. Pratt hangs back as long as he can, watching the crowd from a distance. He doesn’t see Jacob anywhere, and it’s hard for him to blend in. Might be inside already or with his siblings. If he’s not even fucking here, Pratt is going to fucking break his dick off and keep it for himself because it’ll be the only part worth salvaging.

Once the audience starts shuffling into the chapel, Pratt takes long, quick strides to catch up and weave into the crowd, trying his fucking hardest to disappear. Turns out, there’s not enough pew space for everyone to sit, and Pratt gets crammed into one corner on account of his height, plenty tall to have a couple of shorter ladies stand in front of him and still get a decent view. Being out of the way suits him just fine.

The lights are low inside the chapel. Looking up, he can see the rafters wound with white Christmas lights around the beams. There are a couple of floodlights up front to light the stage, and two flat panel screens on either side of the dias, set in back against the wall. Otherwise, everything is pretty spartan.

Jacob, John, and Faith emerge from behind the curtain first, taking up their places at the back of the stage. The whole thing makes Pratt feel weird already, uncomfortable that Jacob is up there, even with all his claims of non belief. He stands ramrod straight on the left side of the stage, positioned just right that he doesn’t block the monitor. He puts his hands behind his back, and just as sure as Pratt as sunk into one corner of the room, it looks like Jacob haunts another.

John takes up a similar position on the right side, but stands further away from the wall, the floodlights illuminating him just enough that he stays in focus, the bright blue of his dress shirt the most vibrant oasis at the front of the stage. He’s got this dumb fucking smile on, like there’s no place he’d rather be. 

There’s a dark patch on the front of his shirt….wet. Hard to tell with how bright the lights are up in front. But Pratt doesn’t think it’s water. He remembers SLOTH recently cut into Joseph’s hide when they last saw each other in the Henbane.

Faith is as handsome as Pratt remembers, the sharp angles of her face softened by her dark, silky hair. She’s frowning as she takes her place at the center rear of the stage, shadows cutting across her face. The lights dye her white dress a pale, desaturated yellow. She wrings her hands, eyes darting across the room.

She’s looking for someone.

Who?

Joseph emerges and the parishioners break into lively chatter, motivated by the peggies who raise the loudest cheers as Joseph approaches the pulpit. Their enthusiasm raises the volume inside the chapel, urging others to join in, until Pratt can barely hear himself think.

They all go silent, when finally Joseph speaks.

“My children. Let us speak today, on the importance of _loyalty_.” He goes on to quote from Ruth, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.”

He throws the pulpit aside, cheap chipboard, shattering like glass on impact as it hits the concrete floor, shards skittering away from Joseph’s feet, his lips curled back into a snarl. “I have brought you here, in the name of God, as I have been commanded by the Voice. You have gone where I have gone. You live where I live. And yet, there are those people all around us all who choose to become snakes instead of men.”

Behind Joseph, Faith Seed stands stone still. Her wandering eyes fixed now at the back of the room, hands folded neatly in front of her.

Pratt looks to Jacob, though he doubts very much that he knows where Pratt is in this crowd. He’s as quiet, as still as Faith, his face set in a hauntingly neutral expression. Is this what the fuck he wanted Pratt to see? To expect to believe in? 

Joseph keeps on speaking, but Pratt’s not sure he hears a word, his attention now fixated on Jacob’s face. How foreign, strange it looks. Unlike the man he’s come to know, who, for all his pretenses towards a sort of masculine stoicism, smiles as unabashedly as anyone Pratt has ever met, and is equally intense in his biting anger.

And yet Jacob gives him _nothing_ now.

By the time Joseph is finished, he’s a sweating, sniveling mess. Pratt is baffled how anyone could be persuaded by this. It’s disgusting.

Jacob crosses the platform, kneeling down to help Joseph back to his feet. Joseph is still unsteady, swaying in the circle of Jacob’s arms. Step by unsteady step, Jacob leads his brother away.

Faith hasn’t moved.

Pratt just wants to get the fuck out of there. Make a quick exit to his car and speed off. He can talk to Jacob about what he’s witnessed on the phone, or another time, or fucking never at this rate. But the air inside the church is oppressive now, hot inside Pratt’s lungs.

Who the fuck was that man wearing Jacob’s body? Where did _Jacob_ go?

Or is it Pratt who is mistaken. Having visions of a man who doesn’t really exist. A demon that possesses Jacob’s limbs as he tumbles into bed each time, promising Pratt that he belongs to him.

Only you.

Pratt is careful not to push too hastily through the crowd, though he tries to cut in where he can. Once outside, the spring air swallows him up, the sky is so fucking blue that he thinks he might be in one of those strange dreams again. But no one is telling him to run.

He’s almost back to his car when a firm hand wraps around his upper arm, dragging him away from the makeshift parking lot. Every fiber of his being says to scream, though he already knows that it’s Jacob whose got him. Jacob who is touching him, however innocently, where other people might see.

“Pratt…”

Pratt wrenches his arm away, “What the fuck was that, Jacob?” he hisses.

“You have to calm down,” Jacob shoves his hands in the pocket of his coat. His holding tension everywhere, only feigning calm composure. Pratt can tell the difference.

“Calm down? Tell your fucking brother to calm down, Jacob. People actually think he’s gonna save them? What is _wrong_ with him?”

Jacob shrugs, “Figure same thing that’s wrong with me.”

Pratt holds Jacob’s gaze longer than he should before he turns away, stalking back to his car. They can’t have this conversation here.


	20. Chapter 20

He calls Jacob’s number later that night, not expecting him to answer. Maybe even find the line disconnected. Pratt isn’t so sure now that he wasn’t overreacting this morning. That he let the heat and the crowd of bodies get to him. He didn’t give Jacob the opportunity to explain. God, part of Pratt knows that nothing Jacob can say would account for Joseph’s outburst. But that response, that the same thing that’s wrong with Joseph is wrong with Jacob too…

Though they’ve never talked about it, really, he knows that Jacob was physically abused as a child. Not the kind of half-hearted swats that Pratt’s mom gave him, only really because her older sisters told her that he would end up spoiled beyond repair if she didn’t. Jokes on them, though. He’s still a goddamn brat. At least, that’s what the rumors say. 

Someone fucking beat the shit out of Jacob repeatedly, though. But Pratt doesn’t know if that’s the reason he and his brothers were in foster care or if it was their foster parents using him as a goddamn punching bag. It’s not so much of a stretch to believe that whoever it was did similar to Joseph, except Pratt has seen the middle Seed shirtless too (not by choice) and he’s not nearly as torn up as Jacob. The only scars Pratt has glimpsed are the self-inflicted sins scratched across his skin. That doesn’t mean Joseph was treated _well_ , but it does suggest that the two brothers weren’t treated equally.

Before the phone can click over to voicemail, Jacob picks up, whispering, “Peaches,” across the distance.

“I should make you stop calling me that,” Pratt jokes bitterly. “I’ve never liked it.”

“Liar,” Jacob softly accuses.

“...Only like it because of you,” Pratt admits.

He sits down on his bedroom floor, leaning back against the bed frame while he talks to Jacob, telling him what they both should have known from the start, what Pratt tried to make clear to Jacob all along. He can’t join Eden’s Gate, even if it’ll ease his relationship with Jacob. Jacob, for his part, finally admits defeat.

“When the time comes, I’ll figure something out,” Jacob huffs. 

Right, the end of the world. The Collapse. Pratt doesn’t try and talk Jacob out of that. He can’t. There’s no point anymore in running around in circles.

“What did you mean...what you said, that the same thing is wrong with you?”

The box fan on the floor starts to rattle. Pratt bought it last year to try and drag in the aircon from the living room. But he already knows he’s gonna cave this summer and buy a second unit for the bedroom window. Electricity bill be damned.

“Joe used to think that we were cursed...then that we were blessed by God. That our suffering made us strong enough to do what needed to be done.”

“And what do you think?” Pratt taps at the fan with his socked foot, trying to get it to quiet down. He doesn’t care about Joseph's interpretation of events. Just what Jacob thinks.

“That the Voice he claims to hear got him to talk me out of stabbing our father with a kitchen knife when I was ten. That I was a killer before I ever put on a uniform. That God or not, some people have a purpose, Peaches. And mine isn’t an easy one to stomach.”

Pratt stops tapping at the base of the box fan, “You’re not a monster, Ja- Jacob.”

“Don’t know how you can say that, when you think my brothers are.”

Pratt admits he doesn’t know what it’s like. His mother adores him, would do anything for him. He’s got nothing in his past other than some typical misadventures. He accidentally shot Caleb with a BB gun once. He started drinking when he was fourteen if you’re getting technical. He’s thought about hurting his father for what he did to his mom, even though he was long gone before Pratt was ever born.

“Okay,” he rests his head back against the edge of the mattress, “I get it, but I still can’t join...yeah? You get why, right?”

“I said I’ll figure something else out. I mean it.”

“Okay,” Pratt doesn’t bother trying to dissuade him.

—

Nick Rye’s wedding is sure to be the event of the summer. He’s got the land and the bride’s parents have got the money, even if the rumor is they’re none too happy about their daughter’s choice.

Pratt doesn’t really know much about her, her name is Kimiko Hase and Joey says she’s from California. She and her parents stayed at the Grand View on vacation last summer. The way Hurk tells it, he and Sharky and Nick were up in the Whitetails ‘fishing,’ when the family stepped out for some scenic hiking. Once Nick got sight of her, he said right then and there that he was gonna marry her. Even if it took making a fool of himself to get her attention. Whatever he managed to do, it worked.

The wedding is scheduled for the 21st of June and once the invitations arrive Joey plants her ass on the edge of Pratt’s desk and announces that they’re each other’s plus one. Pratt agrees easily, it’s not like he can bring Jacob. And he supposes Joey can’t bring Caroline either. Whitehorse is going to let the two of them out of work for the ceremony, and keep Davies and Gilmore on shift. Pratt and Joey know Nick better, on account of their closer ages.

Pratt doesn’t think much about the wedding in the weeks before, though he’s programmed the date in on his calendar. But then about a week before Joey asks him what he’s going to wear and he realizes that even if Nick himself is exceedingly casual, the fancy invitations definitely were not. Pratt groans and hits his forehead against the edge of his desk. He has to go see if his suit from graduation fits. Well, he never got around to wearing the jacket, and June is still too fucking hot for it. But the pants and dress shirt at least.

After work he drives over to his mom’s, texting before he leaves the station that he’s just stopping by to pick some things up. And yet in the fifteen minutes it takes for him to get from his desk to his mom’s front door, she’s already plated dinner for him. At least it looks like leftovers and she didn’t stress herself out with cooking.

“It’s been a good long while since there’s been a wedding,” his mom beams. Her suggestions are never subtle. And she already knows that Pratt is going to the wedding with Joey. _As friends_. 

“Not that many kids stay around,” Pratt shrugs his shoulders. He’d checked Caleb’s Facebook profile yesterday. Not on purpose, his finger slipped and it was still open on the app. Caleb’s current girlfriend’s name is Katya, a blonde so skinny you can see the bones in her chest where her camisole dips low in the photo.

His mother tisks, “There are plenty, Mary May, Grace Armstrong, Jess Black, that Boshaw boy,” now she’s just listing everyone under forty for the hell of it. “I don’t mean anything by it,” she sighs, “it’s just nice to witness love.”

Pratt grunts as he shoves the last bit of rice into his mouth. He’s got to see about the dress pants he left in the closet. 

None of the clothes he left behind are in great shape, he hasn’t touched them in almost two years. But it’s nothing laundering can’t fix. The problem is that is ass won’t fit into the slacks and the buttons on the dress shirt pull too tight over his chest. And what do you know, Jacob is right. He is bigger. He pinches over his hips and then his stomach, making sure it’s not fat. Nope, he’s good.

On his way out the door he tells his mom that nothing fit. She asks if he wants to go shopping together his next day off? They can go in to Polson and get him something nice for the wedding. He should tell her no, that he’s perfectly capable of buying clothing for himself. Also, if they go together, she’s going to try and pay for him, even though he makes more money than her receptionist’s job at the water treatment plant.

“You’re always in such a hurry to leave,” she guilts him, “it would be nice to go together.”

Pratt gives in, saying that he’ll drive them on Friday. They can go around eleven after he gets a nap in after work. And no paying for him! He’s an adult with a job. He can purchase things for himself.

—

Jacob phones him while he’s asleep, but there’s no time to return the call. Pratt is already running late to go pick up his mom, having overslept his alarm. He considers rescheduling with her for another day, but he doesn’t really have any other time off before the wedding.

Predictably, his mother is waiting on the porch when he drives up. As she walks towards the car, he rolls the windows up and puts the air conditioning on, so that the breeze won’t blow her hair into her lipstick.

“Remember, I can pay for my own sh-stuff,” he says, as they pull away from the house. 

On the drive to Polson she talks about her work, well, really about work gossip. And Pratt wonders why there aren’t any thrilling prime-time dramas about small town sewage treatment, because the way that his mom tells it, it’s high intrigue up on that hill.

She suggests they go to the department store on the outer corner of the town. The one that Pratt swears has been going out of business for the last six years, bright yellow signs in the windows with bold black lettering marking “Everything” at 40-60% percent off. That is, unless it’s something that is actually worth buying.

The place is pretty dead and Pratt is able to park close. He has to deliberately slow down his normal walking pace so that his mom can keep up. 

Inside, his mother is immediately accosted by a bored cosmetics rep, smiling brightly and telling her that she has beautiful skin. His mom gets dragged in pretty quickly on that ploy and Pratt mills around, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans while the rep walks her through the product line. Though he knows that his mom is more than capable of turning the rep down, he sneaks in next to her and tells her to pick something out. He’ll pay for her. He wants to get her something nice. He’s seen the little sample jars in her bathroom vanity. She goes through dozens of them a year. Has since he was a kid. But he’s never seen her buy a full-size anything from one of the counters. She seems reluctant, but the saleswoman really pushes the one that she thinks is best.

Pratt doesn’t know any better what to choose, but his mom will just keep hemming and hawing about him spending money on her. So in the end, he just tells the sales rep that he’ll take the one she suggests. She starts to ply a jar of something else onto him and he tells her that’s fine, he’ll take both. Even as he’s handing over his card, his mother is saying that he shouldn’t do this.

But it feels good to be able to just...buy his mother something without having to worry. He carries the bag for her until they get to the men’s dress wear section and he’s got to pull something out to try on. There’s no point in buying yet another suit he’s not going to wear, so he just grabs a bunch of slacks in a slightly larger size and the same dress shirt with thin blue stripes in three different sizes.

“I still think you should get the jacket,” his mother calls out over the dressing room door. There’s no attendant staffing the little counter at the entrance and there aren’t any other shoppers either. So she doesn’t bother waiting outside and instead perches herself on the ratty ottoman over by the three-way mirror.

He tries on the next size up in pants from the one he has at home. Turning around, he tries to get a look at his ass in the mirror before stepping out to show his mom. It’s not like he needs anyone at the wedding _looking_ at his ass. So he’s not sure why it matters. And he can’t think of any occasion he would ever have to wear these to see Jacob. 

After settling on the shirt size he opens the door latch to show his mom, who makes him turn around so she can get a look at every angle. Pratt has already settled on both the pants and the shirt, and he’s not looking for her approval. It just seems polite to show her what he’s buying. A holdover from when she was the one paying for everything.

She seems to think that he should go bigger on the pants, but that’s an argument that they’ve been having since he was about fourteen. He likes the narrower leg and he almost makes a joke that if she’s so concerned with his relationship prospects, showing off his ass is the way to go. But fuck, that gives too much about his preferences away, doesn’t it?

His mom thinks he should get a tie to go with it, but he beats her back saying that ties don’t come in sizes, he can still use that from his graduation suit. He actually has no intention of wearing a tie at all, and will probably leave his collar unbuttoned at the wedding.

She still tries to pull out her card when they get up to the cashier, but he steps in front of her, before she can circumvent his decision.

—

There’s no moon this time, just a misty haze of red, fogging up the corners of Pratt’s vision, a gauzy frame around a sharper center. And though the forest feels as congested, dark, and restrictive as it always does, Pratt is light on his bare feet.

He walks along the path, his steps cushioned by the soft moss bed that envelops what was once jagged stone. The wolves are there, howling, waiting, but they come no closer, leaving Pratt to find his footing.

Step by step he travels closer to his destination, the quiet thud that calls him to the clearing. Like a beating heart. 

Their pond is liquid silver, and Pratt does not realize until he goes to look at his reflection, that it is because the surface is choked with dead fish, risen to the surface. Their mirrored scales catch the light. The liquid in between each carcass is ruby-dark, thicker than water. Pratt crouches low, dragging his fingers through the bloody sludge.

_Why does he not care that they are dead?_

“Staci…”

He starts at the sound of his name in Jacob’s voice. Turning, he faces the apparition with Jacob’s face. He’s been here, in this dream, enough times before to know that none of this is real. Even if he can feel every time that he is devoured, even if every escape tastes sweet.

“Jacob?”

Jacob’s hands are dark with blood. It’s always blood, here. The dream must run on it, never dry. There are carvings on his forearms, his sins. Like his brothers. But Pratt can’t read what they are. What transgression they represent. The sharp angles and unsteady lines aren’t decipherable underneath the blood.

Pratt reaches out, touching his fingers to the center of Jacob’s chest. Jacob reaches out, cupping his hands around Pratt’s cheeks. His wounds open, seeping like melting ice, sluicing down his arms and staining Pratt’s white dress. Pratt feels sticky-wet all over, watching as the red blooms across his sternum.

The wolves come closer, emerging from the forest and circling them both. They’re docile now, in Jacob’s presence, their mouths show evidence of a fresh kill. With every step they draw closer, tighter spirals around the prey they have been hunting all along. And though Jacob is with him, Pratt is afraid.

“Jacob?” Pratt repeats, wanting, needing anything to throw the wolves back. They’re too close now. He can feel their breath on his exposed calves.

Jacob slips the pad of his thumb past Pratt’s lips. It tastes of pine sap.

Pratt’s alarm goes off.


	21. Chapter 21

Joey said she’d go ahead and ride out to the wedding with Mary May, Pratt can meet them at Rye & Sons at his leisure, but don’t be late. He keeps the aircon on through the drive, as to not sweat through his shirt before the ceremony actually starts, winding his way south through the valley roads. 

His phone is plugged into the aux jack for the car stereo, songs he’s heard a hundred times before on repeat. The melodies slow and vocals wistful, in the back of his mind he knows they’re love songs, even when they’re about defeat.

By the time he arrives at Rye & Sons there are maybe fifty cars already parked end to end at the far end of the runway. More than half of them look like rentals and Pratt wonders if there are any left at the airport in Bozeman. The wedding is supposed to be huge, but most of the guests aren’t local. Nick probably will have a couple dozen friends in attendance, but the majority are definitely coming from Kimiko’s side.

They’re probably all looking down on the Hope County locals. How could they not?

Pratt spots Joey and Mary May leaning against the tailgate of Joey’s Jeep. Mary May is dressed in powder blue, which makes her already pale complexion appear even more pastel, but in a way the suits her. There’s a rhinestone clip in her hair, slightly askew already. Joey finally found another way to wear those suede boots she’s so fond of, even if they don’t quite go with her daisy-yellow sundress.

Joey wolf whistles at Pratt as he walks over, fiddling with his belt buckle to make sure it’s properly centered. Even though he wears his shirt tucked in for work, it still feels a little weird to be so stuffed and formal right now. Mary May comments that he looks good, and if Pratt hadn’t let her pet ferret loose when they were fourteen, she’d might give him a chance.

“I like to believe he went on to accomplish great things as a free weasel,” Pratt argues. Not that he’s interested in Mary May.

“He most likely went on to be something else’s dinner,” she frowns.

Pratt knows that Caleb got an invitation to the wedding. At least, he assumes that’s why Nick asked him for Caleb’s address in New York, but he’s certain that Caleb didn’t bother to show up. Even though they haven’t talked in….god, years...Pratt still thinks that if Caleb were coming to Hope, Pratt would be his first call. It’s just that Caleb is _never_ coming back. He’s managed to break free from the orbit of the county. Good for him, really.

Pratt doesn’t begrudge him for a moment. He might do the same, in Caleb’s place.

Joey takes a drag from her vape before clicking it back off and shoving it in her purse, a bottomless pit of crap as far as Pratt can tell. They three of them walk off towards the hanger together, mostly ignored by the strangers who make up the bulk of people in attendance.

Pratt can’t help but listen in on the chatter, though. Mostly comments about how beautiful the mountain scenery is. Pristine and untouched. The kind of stuff tourists always say because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the addiction rates and the poverty and the backwoods mentality that’s still holding Pratt and Joey’s heads underwater. They can appreciate the pretty sights and go home to California, unscathed by the realities Pratt can’t escape.

One of Nick’s cousins, who lives in Tacoma now, helps them get seated on the “groom’s” side of the aisle. They’ve come in sort of late so they’re situated pretty far back among the rows and rows of rented white folding chairs. Everything is arranged to face towards the southern range. From what Pratt could see, the caterers are setting up inside the hanger, trying to keep the food out of the sun.

Pratt ends up sitting next to someone he doesn’t know, Joey on his other side. He doesn’t know if it’s polite to introduce himself or not, so he ends up saying nothing, hands folded in his lap. Joey goes back into her purse and pulls out a flask. Because fucking bless her.

“Open bar doesn’t mean much when it’s an hour before it opens,” she says, passing the canister to Mary May after she’s taken her first gulp, then to Pratt once Mary May is satisfied. The vodka is smooth and cold, goes down easily. The flask isn’t near big enough to get the three of them sloshed during the ceremony, but they can at least get pleasantly buzzed in the early-summer sunlight.

Nick shows up not long after, with Protestant pastor that Pratt doesn’t recognize. He’s smiling ear to ear. And while it’s sort of weird to see Nick without a hat on, his slightly wavy hair bunching up around the crown of his head, he’s managed to keep the sunglasses.

The bride’s procession starts and the guests go quiet, everyone turning back towards the hanger from where they expect Kimiko to emerge. Kimiko has like eight bridesmaids, but Nick only has three male cousins to go around. So half the bridesmaids end up escorting each other down the aisle, laughing into their perfectly manicured hands. If Pratt had to guess, three of them look like Kimiko’s sisters or maybe cousins, the others are probably friends. The flower girl is Nick’s towheaded niece, a big peach colored bow in her hair that matches the bridesmaids’ dresses.

Kimiko _is_ really pretty. Petite but wide-hipped, couldn’t be taller than 5’2”. She’s so full of beaming, nervous energy that Pratt is surprised she doesn’t leave her father in the dust and make a run straight for Nick at the altar.

Nick and Kimiko look good together, happy. 

Pratt takes another drink from Joey’s flask. The ceremony itself is short, despite the expense put into it. The couple kiss once, quickly, then a second time that gets Hurk and Sharky in the front row to holler.

After that, Pratt supposes they’ve got to get in line to congratulate the happy couple, but Joey pulls him aside, saying “fuck that, we’ll see them soon enough,” and instead they head for the promised open bar.

Joey definitely has the right idea. The receiving line is about a hundred people deep and even with his glasses covering his eyes Nick clearly wishes this part of the wedding would just come to a close. Probably can’t wait to get to the honeymoon, if the way he paws all over the bride is any indication.

Pratt keeps on with the vodka and Joey says that she likes the way he thinks. Mary May switches over to wine and the deputies tease her about being fancy.

For the reception, they’re seated with Sharky, Hurk, and an empty seat. Pratt gets the distinct feeling they’re being isolated from the other guests, but he doesn’t mind. It’s more comfortable to be sitting with his friends, rather than trying to navigate a bunch of people he’ll never see again.

The food is ridiculously good and probably ridiculously expensive. Nick and Kim come by their table halfway through the entree and Pratt gets to meet Kim for the first time.

Turns out, she’s absolutely perfect for Nick. Warm, but sarcastic when the situation calls for it and really fucking keen on getting out of her shoes. Nick stands behind her as she introduces herself to everyone, keeping both his arms wrapped around her, swaying back and forth to the soft music from the band.

The sun starts to set and Joey wants to dance. Pratt isn’t going to deny her, though he’s pretty shit at slow dancing. He’s her date after all. Joey drops her chin onto his shoulder and they sway gently to the music. Without thinking much about it, Pratt runs his fingers over Joey’s hair.

“I know I said I’d back off...but,” Joey starts she’s a little drunk. They’ve been drinking all day but burning it off too. Trying to maintain the correct amount of tipsy for the occasion.

“But what, Joey?” he gets his hand out of her hair.

“You’re not lonely?” she asks, pulling back just enough to look Pratt in the eyes, “You don’t want to be with someone?”

Pratt swallows hard, looking away and back at her. He wants to tell her. He wants to tell anyone. But he can’t. He told Jacob that he wouldn’t.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.” Not for the first time, he considers lying to her. Telling her maybe that he’s been enjoying himself with a rotating string of hook-ups or something. A story that is believable but wouldn’t require him to actually produce a living boyfriend or girlfriend for her to interrogate. But he thinks lying about something like that will just make things worse.

He rests his chin on the top of Joey’s head until the song fades out.

“I’m okay.”

—

The truck coming from the opposite direction flashes its lights as Pratt passes. Looking down at his dash, he confirms his own headlights are on. Only then does it dawn on him that was Jacob, trying to get his attention.

Jacob pulls a u-turn, coming up from behind and overtaking Pratt’s civic to get out in front. Pratt follows after, taking the next left, then a right, until the pull into the parking lot for the nearby fishing pier.

As much as he had to drink at the wedding, Pratt feels mostly sober now. He’d paced himself so that he could drive home without too much trouble. 

Jacob gets out of the truck and motions in the dark for Pratt to follow him. Well, at least Jacob is going to get a chance to see Pratt’s ass in these pants after all.

But he’s lost sight of Jacob already, his stupid habit of just disappearing into the woods without a trace. Why can’t they ever do shit like fucking normal people? Pratt still doesn’t think that he wants to be….out, exactly. But god fucking damnit, why couldn’t they be _friends_? Why can’t they even be seen together?

An arm wraps around Pratt’s waist from behind, knocking the wind out of him as Jacob pulls him tight. Maybe Pratt is more drunk than he thought, because Jacob really managed to sneak up on him. He relaxes a little into Jacob’s hold, putting his hands over top of Jacob’s arm, worrying the stretch of burned skin that is most roughly textured.

“Hey,” Pratt says, tipping his head back and pressing a kiss to Jacob’s jaw, beard tickling his nose. He can feel Jacob’s response rumbling through his chest.

“Where were you? You look nice,” Jacob loosens up around Pratt’s waist, letting his palm drift higher along his chest. Pratt can’t help but grind his ass a little bit against Jacob’s crotch, smirking when he feels Jacob buck forward into the friction.

“Nick Rye’s wedding,” Pratt explains, spinning in the circle of Jacob’s arms, until they’re standing face to face. “Thought everyone knew about it.”

Jacob laughs, “In case you didn’t know, I’m a little out of the local grapevine.”

“You’re a little out of civilization,” Pratt ribs him, “What are you doing out here?”

Jacob shrugs his shoulders, “Going to the ranch. John needs me for something.”

“You should ditch him,” Pratt smiles, “come home with me instead?”

Jacob tucks that stupid stray curl of Pratt’s back behind his ear again. “You know I can’t. But I couldn’t resist when I saw you on the road,” he starts to crowd Pratt back towards the nearest tree.

Part of Pratt would like nothing more than to let Jacob absolutely ruin his nice new clothes, to put him on his knees in the dirt, choke him on his cock until there are tears streaming down his face, wetting his neck and collar. 

Oh, but Jacob has to _go_. Can’t be seen with Pratt, can’t let his brothers know where he’s been. And it’s such fucking bullshit really, that he has to hide from _John_ of all people. John who has the distinction of being so fucking queer that people don’t even talk about it anymore. It’s old news. But even he can’t know what Pratt and Jacob do in the dark.

Pratt grabs fistfuls of Jacob’s shirt, keeping his arms folded between their bodies so that Jacob can’t get that close. And god, it sort of hits him all at once how fucked up this is. Pratt doesn’t want to attribute it to the wedding, he’s not like that. He’s not going to dredge up Nick and Kim’s smiling faces, their domestic bliss, and demand a declaration of equal measure. That’s not him, that’s not a card in his deck, or Jacob’s. But...the idea that Jacob could have been the one in the empty seat at the table. The chair that was probably meant for Caleb, who didn’t fucking come either. 

Pratt is starting to admit to himself that he wants something more than this. That someone, _anyone_ needs to know. There isn’t a future for him and Jacob otherwise. Just this endless carousel he can’t climb off.

“Call him, tell him you’ll be late,” Pratt says, fingers twisting in the fabric of Jacob’s tee. “Tell him you’re with someone.”

“I can’t,” Jacob says, “you know I can’t.”

“Jacob…what are we doing?” Pratt wishes he could take back his words, as soon as they leave his mouth.

Jacob frowns at him, shifting his weight between his feet. “I thought we were okay.”

Pratt feels himself start to shake, the last remnants of his intoxication fading out. The reality of their situation blooming on the surface. They’ve been at this for years, _years_. This holding pattern that they both refuse to break.

“You’re okay with this?” Pratt asks, “you’re okay with being your brothers’ dog? When do you get to do something, anything for yourself, Jacob? When do you get...when do we get to be ourselves? At least a little?”

Jacob tries to soothe him, running his hands up and down Pratt’s arms, shoulders to elbows and back again. Pratt has to find a way to stop the shaking, before he does something really stupid.

“We can’t,” Jacob admits, “I can’t.”

“Fuck you,” Pratt coughs, meaning it this time, “Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!” he screams into the empty dark. And for a moment, he swears he hears the wolves, that he sees the red of his dreams. But when he looks down, he’s still dressed in slacks and a button down, the white dress nowhere to be seen.

He pulls away from Jacob, who doesn’t try to stop him this time. Of course not, he can’t keep John waiting.

Pratt gets back in his car and tears off, not bothering to look back. There isn’t anything he wants to see right now.

—

Joey rocks back on her heels, arms folded behind her back, beaming wide. Pratt knows that look. She only smiles like that when there’s going to be heavy drinking and possible poor decisions involved.

“I’m having another party, in Missoula,” she announces, “on the ninth of July, since Whitehorse is never gonna give us the fourth.” The fourth isn’t even that bad, as far as holidays in Hope County are concerned. Everyone who is going to get blackout drunk tends to hit their limit early, and people are generally in good spirits. Plus, they’re stuffing themselves with enough food they can barely walk. So, really, other than the dumbshits who are going to blow themselves up with fireworks (Sharky Boshaw) the deputies are actually mostly in the clear. As far as they’re concerned, Independence Day is the bullet the EMTs take to the gut, not them. They’re already saddled with Halloween and Christmas.

Still, Joey has a point. Davies and Gilmore both have kids they’ll want to spend the holiday with and neither he or Joey have “families” of their own yet….ever. Well, Pratt doesn’t know what Joey’s endgame is here. If she’s going to come out eventually, or get the fuck out of Hope County all together.

Pratt hasn’t talked to Jacob since the wedding.

At first he needed time to think. To get his head back on straight about what he wants and what is possible. He wants Jacob, god he wants him, and it may not be possible for them to be more open. The more Pratt thinks about it, the more convinced he is that Jacob’s brothers finding out is just an excuse for something else. Even though Jacob told Pratt that he _was_ out at one point, he’s clearly not interested in being out now. Pratt can’t claim to know what it must be like for Jacob, who watched everyone important to him die. But he thinks maybe Jacob is scared of losing everything and everyone again. That choosing Pratt means giving up on his siblings. Or something like it. The only thing that keeps throwing a wrench in that line of thought is John.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll be there,” Pratt agrees, even though that probably means that Joey is planning on using him as a pack mule again. At least he’ll get some social stimulation with new-ish people. Though he suspects they’ll be a lot of repeat faces. He pops his gum inside his cheek, in the exact way everyone else in the office hates.


	22. Chapter 22

Joey picks him up with a trunk full of liquor and a new aux cable dangling from the input in the center console. She even lets Pratt plug his phone in first. He puts his jumbled playlist on shuffle and he can tell Joey is holding back on calling him an emo bitch. But her taste is fucking worse. All pop songs from ten years ago and then, for some reason, the entire Fleetwood Mac Rumors album. Which isn’t so bad in and of itself, but it’s just so out of place that it throws Pratt for a loop every time Stevie Nicks comes through the speaker.

Halfway along the drive to Missoula, Joey admits that she’s thinking about leaving Hope County. Her fingers get tight around the wheel and she keeps her eyes firmly on the road as the confession tumbles from her lips. 

At first, Pratt can’t say anything but “oh.” When he doesn’t offer anything else, she follows up that she and Caroline broke up months ago. They’re still friends, obviously. She and Pratt are going to a party at Caroline’s house, after all. But the distance was hard. A couple of hours can feel like a whole continent if you let it. And the schedules at the Sheriff’s department have been so out of control as of late.

“I love the job,” Joey says, “I love Hope...but...it feels like giving up. I gave up on her, on us. And I’m not sure yet that I made the right choice.”

Pratt really hopes that Joey isn’t looking for him for wisdom, but he can at least be a friend. He owes her that much. “I’ve got your back, Joey.”

She smiles.

—

Pratt is drunk, honest to fucking god drunk. He’s having a good fucking time, and Brian, at least, Pratt thinks his name is Brian, has big hands and a wide smile and stands too close as they both sip from their red solo cups. Pratt bites down hard on the rim of his cup, feeling it splinter under the pressure of his teeth. 

Brian tells him to be careful, taking the broken cup out of Pratt’s hand. On top of everything else, Brian (definitely Brian, who works in insurance sales) smells fucking good, like pine trees and musk and just enough damp sweat. Pratt’s pretty sure he’s staring now at the way Brian’s tee pulls across his chest. And he shouldn’t even be looking, right? He’s not available. But Brian leans in close, his mouth hot against Pratt’s ear, crowding into his personal space, asking if he needs another drink? 

Pratt threads his index and middle finger through Brian’s belt loop, his knuckles grazing against the softened leather of his belt. This is definitely too close, too intimate. He tips his head back, smiling. God, this could be so easy, right? They’re in a crowded room, plenty of eyes, and this man he barely knows wants him, _wants him_. And in the relatively controlled surroundings of what must be the gayest fucking house in Montana, Pratt admits that it feels _good_ that people can see _him_.

In his front pocket, his phone starts to vibrate. “Shit,” he curses, unhooking his fingers from Brian’s belt loop to reach for his phone.

Caleb - New

“I have to take this,” Pratt excuses himself, heading out through the crowd of bodies and towards the back porch.

By the time he makes it outside, he realizes his mistake, because the deck is packed too. He keeps on wandering, until he’s in the soft grass, rained yesterday. Making his way to the furthest back corner of the yard, he picks up just before Jacob is sent to voicemail.

“Peaches?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Where’s here?” Jacob asks.

Pratt leans back against the wooden privacy fence. He’s a little dizzy, and ends up slipping towards the ground, unconcerned about getting grass stains on his jeans. No one will care but him.

“Missoula, at a party.” He tucks his knees in close to his chest, his free hand ripping at the grass beside him in fistfuls.

“When will you be back?”

Pratt thinks about telling Jacob, ‘never.’ That he’s about to run away with an insurance salesman named Brian whose got big brown eyes and a nice chest and will put his mouth close to Pratt’s in front of other people. 

But instead, he asks Jacob, “Why?”

“Why? Why do you think?”

“Tell me why...why does it matter when I come back?”

Jacob doesn’t say anything. Pratt hangs up on him.

—

Jacob calls him back in the early hours of the morning. Pratt managed to pass out on the porch swing. The weather is warm enough and the gentle rocking from his weight knocked him straight out. Out of pure habit, he reaches for his phone when it starts to vibrate, picking up without looking at who’s calling.

“I need to see you,” Jacob says. “That’s why I want to know when you’ll be back.”

It takes Pratt a second to make his mouth move properly, “Fuck you. You haven’t called in weeks.”

“Neither have you,” Jacob counters. Sighing, he tries again, “When will you be back?”

“Dunno,” Pratt finally concedes, “sometime tomorrow. I don’t know what time we’re leaving.” Right now, he doesn’t even know where Joey is. Though he has a strong suspicion that even though she and Caroline have broken up, that Joey still ended up in her bed tonight.

“Come up to the Veterans Center,” he says, “after one am. I’ll open the gate for you.”

Pratt hums into the phone, “Okay,” not thinking through what this might mean.

—

This is probably a phenomenally stupid idea.

But Pratt gets in his car and takes the long drive up to the Veterans Center in the early hours of the morning. If he’s being honest with himself, he never intended to end his relationship with Jacob….Pratt just wanted to find some way to punish him for being such a fucking asshole. And not calling seemed like the path of least resistance. That way, he didn’t have to actually do anything.

And yeah, it was probably wrong of him just to assume that he could...he doesn’t even know. Go and pick up someone else at a party and fuck them? In the end, nothing happened between Pratt and that guy, but if he’s honest, Pratt would have let it happen. He would have let Brad fuck him in the walk-in pantry and never told Jacob. But it didn’t happen. So there’s nothing to not tell Jacob now.

As he gets close to the center, the gate starts to open up. Jacob must have gotten it on hydraulics or something since the last time Pratt was here. The place needed serious renovations before it would be at all habitable.

Pratt freezes, his foot still on the break. Wait. Jacob said there are people living here. Peggies live here with Jacob. Whatever training program he’s got set up for survival skills and weapons handling.

Does this mean that Jacob is okay with people knowing? That he wants them to know? Okay, maybe not know that they’re fucking. Because that’s a lot. But at least that they are friends. That’s a lot though too. The rumors about Pratt have quieted down, yeah. But he doesn’t think for a second that anyone in the county has forgotten that he’s, supposedly, queer.

Taking a deep breath, he switches his foot from the break onto the gas. As he pulls into the courtyard, he finds it empty of vehicles, other than Jacob’s truck parked in the corner closest to the flank of the main building. About a third of the courtyard it taken up with empty cages and sealed crates. Most of them wooden, impossible to tell what’s inside. But mixed in with those are the mint-green canisters that Pratt has seen before. Liquid of some kind, maybe. Pratt isn’t sure. He keeps forgetting to ask about them.

Pratt pulls up into the space next to Jacob’s truck, stepping out of the car and into the flood-lit courtyard. He doesn’t see anyone, not even Jacob. And in that moment, goosebumps break out along his skin.

What is going on?

Just as acidic panic starts to choke him, Jacob emerges from the guardhouse positioned just to the left of the gate. Right, he had to work the controls to let Pratt in, then close the gate behind him. Jacob shuffles over, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. There are deep blue bags around his eyes, his beard a little longer than he usually keeps it.

“Come on,” Jacob says, dropping his hand to the small of Pratt’s back. The gesture is unmistakably intimate. Not something that you would do with friends. Jacob whistles, and the white wolf Pratt has seen before emerges from behind the crates at the back of the yard, bounding over to heel at Jacob’s other side.

Jacob opens the door for him and it’s obvious that the Center is empty except for the two of them. Well, that explains why Jacob was so keen on having him over tonight. 

The inside of the center only looks marginally better than it did, what, a year ago? When Pratt was last here. Most of the excess dirt and rubble have been swept away. And the walls that looked like they had structural integrity issues were patched. But nothing has been painted, the lights are utilitarian, most of them look like outdoor fixtures, metal cages around bare bulbs. Nothing at all that would make someone _want_ to live here. Though there are signs of habitation. The doors to the individual rooms are mostly closed, but they have small cut-out windows in the center, and Pratt can see that they’re furnished with cots and metal shelving, folded clothes in creams and whites and browns.

That just raises the question about where all the peggies are _now_. They pass a dozen rooms on the way to Jacob’s, the wolf always in step with her master. 

All of the rooms appear to be occupied. And this is just one level of the Center. Surely not all the floors have as much residential space, but Pratt would guess around fifty people live here.

“Where are they?” Pratt asks, as Jacob fits his key into the lock on his room. It’s the same one as last year. The wolf waits outside the door as they head inside.

Jacob’s room doesn’t look much different than before. He has a proper bed frame and mattress, instead one of those military issue cots. But it’s still too small for two people. Probably really too small for Jacob to fit comfortably by himself. Pratt knows that Jacob doesn’t sleep well, but his choice in accommodations can’t exactly help. There’s at least a lighting fixture now, but it’s one of the same ugly metal cages that are hung in the halls. The same desk lamp, more filing cabinets, a heavy rubberized trunk at the foot of Jacob’s bed that wasn’t there before. Nothing of personal sentimentality, really. Oh. Except the bag that Pratt gave him for his birthday last year, hung up on a hook on the wall next to his desk. The location is so _public_ in a way that gives Pratt pause. Then again, it could be that no one but Jacob comes in here.

“They’re helping Joe,” Jacob explains. 

Pratt presses, “Doing what?”

Jacob gives him a look, flicking on his desk lamp and starting to clear off the paperwork he’s left out. “He needed help at the ranch.”

“Doing what,” Pratt hisses. He’s getting tired of these half answers.

Jacob runs his fingers through his hair, setting it askew. “There’s a baptism tonight. John is there with them.”

“Isn’t that something you’re supposed to attend?” He’s actually a little shocked that Jacob caved and gave him a direct answer. But the question stands. While he hasn’t seen John or Joseph that many times, all things considered, Jacob appears to act as some sort of….bodyguard when his brothers make public appearances. And there was that time he saw Jacob with Faith. Even if Jacob isn’t the one making decisions, he’s definitely involved in his brothers’ public images.

Jacob grunts, “they can handle this one without me. It’s John’s Show, really.” He takes a step back towards Pratt, now that he’s neatened up his desk. Cradling Pratt’s face in his hands, he leans over just enough to kiss him. Pratt doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t want to fight it other than for the sake of being obstinate. So what’s the point? He’s had his little tantrum and now he’s over it. It’s Jacob’s turn to play nice.

Pratt grabs hold of Jacob’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?” Doesn’t matter if he won’t get an answer. Sometimes, what’s important, is reminding Jacob that the question is important. 

“Joe asked about you,” Jacob sighs, pushing his hands down to Pratt’s hips. He thumbs across the edge of Pratt’s leather belt, looking down at their feet. “You and that friend of yours, Joey Hudson. It’s how I knew you weren’t in Hope. Someone saw you leave.”

Pratt recoils, stepping out of Jacob’s reach. What the fuck? “Joseph is having us followed?”

Jacob shakes his head, “Not followed...watched. I….it’s not about you and me. It’s about Joey Hudson.”

“What the fuck, Jacob? What the fuck? What is he doing?” Pratt is in a panic now, the pitch of his voice rising, clawing emotions that he tries so carefully to contain scratching at the inside of his throat, making him sound clipped, harsh. “No no no, you fucking stop this now, Jacob. You stop this or I’m going to find a way to have your brother _arrested_.”

“Listen to me carefully, Pratt.” Jacob doesn’t move to touch him. “This will all be over very soon. Okay? There is another option. And I’m going to make sure that’s the one Joseph takes. Joey Hudson will be okay. Joseph will forget about her, soon.”

“Jacob, stop fucking with me,” if he can’t get a straight fucking answer, he’ll have _Jacob_ hauled in at this point. 

“Joseph is looking for someone to fill a role in the Project. That’s it. Just a title. John….likes Joey Hudson more than he should. I think he likes her because he can’t have her,” Jacob shakes his head.

“Joey is a lesbian, Jacob. Even if she weren’t, she _despises_ John. You have to get him to stop, or she’s going to get a goddamn restraining order on him. No, scratch that, she’ll fucking shoot him on sight.”

Jacob sighs, “she won’t shoot him, and a restraining order will never stick. You know that. John will find a way around it. But I promise you, after this role if filled, Joe won’t let John near her. If he does, yeah, come up here and cuff my ass.”

Pratt snickers bitterly, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“If you’re offering, Peaches,” Jacob smiles.

Pratt groans, hiding his face in both his hands. Realizing something, he looks up, “This position...this is what those trips were about. Weren’t they?”

Jacob shrugs, “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s why we went hiking, hunting, fishing. That’s why we’re going to keep doing those things, together. That was for you, for us.”

Pratt takes a shaky breath, “I’m not interested in joining Eden’s Gate. And neither is Joey, okay? Just leave us out of this.”

“I know, I know,” Jacob touches his hair. “I said I wouldn’t bring it up again. That’d I’d find another way. And I will. But John doesn’t always….listen to reason.”

“God, You’d think as a lawyer he’d have at least a little tact. I find it hard to believe he ever was good at his job.”

“Never saw him in a court of law. Have watched him talk to people, though. And I know what he does to me.”

Pratt narrows his eyes, “What does he do to you?”

Jacob shakes his head, “It’s more me, than him. I think. But I look at him and I see….every one of my failings wrapped up in a pretty package. That I carried someone good and pure and sweet out of that barn when we were kids. But what does it matter, when he spent the next thirty years trying to destroy himself? I couldn’t help him.”

Pratt sits down on the edge of the bed, putting one ankle up on his bent knee. He starts to bounce his foot, expend energy somehow. “It’s not your fault you had shitty parents, Jacob. You were just a kid yourself.”

“I was old enough to know better,” Jacob says sternly, crossing the room to sit down next to Pratt. 

He lays his hand on Pratt’s thigh, urging him to stop bouncing his foot. Pratt’s shaking the entire mattress. He strokes from the junction of Pratt’s thighs down to his knee and back again, keeping the touch steady, smooth. Pratt leans over, resting his weight against Jacob’s side. He feels like he should share something of himself. That Jacob has let him in, and he should return the gesture.

“I keep having these dreams,” Pratt admits.

Jacob’s hand goes still, fingers curling around the meat of Pratt’s thigh, digging in.

“They’re so strange...I don’t know what they mean,” he lets his eyes drift closed, and he can almost see the red. “I’m running, being chased by a pack of wolves,” he doesn’t tell Jacob about the dress. “But this last time, you were there.” He sighs, opening his eyes and watching Jacob’s empty desk. “You were bleeding. Just...these streams of blood running down your arms. Jacob...I’m worried. About you,” Pratt admits.

And it’s the closest Pratt has ever gotten to telling Jacob how he feels.

It feels strange, this time, like they’re swimming through the open air. Jacob puts him on his back, tugging off Pratt’s jeans, then his own. He swings his leg over Pratt’s hips, straddling his cock and sinking down.

Pratt slips his hands under Jacob’s shirt, expecting to find marred skin, textured and warm, familiar. Instead, he brushes up against bandages wrapped snugly around Jacob’s abdomen.

“Jacob?” Pratt slurs, his voice like syrup running back down his throat, clinging to his words.

“I’m fine,” Jacob leans over, lifting himself off of Pratt’s cock before sinking back down. His own erection bobbing against his abdomen, the head smearing precome and darkening his white shirt to gray.

Jacob feels so fucking tight around him, like he’s being strangled. Pratt tries to breathe, to break the hold he feels around his limbs, but he can barely move. His fingers tapping against the bandage, where Jacob says he’s fine. But he’s not fine. None of them are fine.

“Jacob,” Pratt groans, throwing his head back and bucking into Jacob’s thrusts. The best he can manage is wrapping his hands around Jacob’s hips, rocking into the heat and friction that Jacob yields to him. 

Jacob works his cock in one hand, stroking fast and hard as he slams himself down on Pratt’s cock. Pratt watches, as red pinpricks appear on Jacob’s shirt. Pratt grabs the hem of his shirt with clumsy hands, pulling it up enough to expose Jacob’s bandages, the blood starting to seep through.

“Jacob,” Pratt chokes, breathing in, “we have to stop, Jacob, your stomach.”

“I’m fine,” Jacob says through gritted teeth. Then softer, touching the side of Pratt’s face, “I’m good, _Peaches_ , so good. You’re good. Alright? Stay focused on me now. That’s it, that’s right. You gonna fuck me with that nice, fat cock of yours? Gonna fill me up?”

“Okay,” Pratt relents, still holding onto Jacob’s sides as he gets himself to thrust up with more finesse than before, tries to bury himself _deep_ , giving Jacob what he wants. What they both want, really. Because yeah, yeah it feels good. He wants to come inside of Jacob, wants to feel this close, all his nerves tight and worked and raw. Wants Jacob to come, wants that affection he sees in Jacob’s eyes. Like maybe, maybe there is something more for them.

Jacob comes across Pratt’s shirt in messy spurts, his body going tense and tight until Pratt is coming too, whiting out for a second as Jacob holds him tight, whispering that he’s got him. Got em. Nothing is going to come between them. Even this.

Once Jacob has climbed off, wiped himself down with his own underwear, Pratt manages to sit up in bed. His head feels okay now, the leaden feeling gone.

“Come on,” Jacob offers Pratt his hand, “let’s get something to eat.”

Pratt’s shirt is ruined, so Jacob grabs one of his for Pratt to wear. The wolf is still waiting by the door when they exit, falling smoothly into step with her master, as Jacob leads them both through the Center. They take the stairs down to the ground floor, around the corner to the cafeteria.

The halls are mostly clear, other than those mint-green canisters. Pratt finally gets the chance to ask about them. Jacob opens one for him, showing that it’s empty. “My sister uses them, refining flowers in the Henbane.”

“Faith, right?” Pratt asks. 

Jacob nods.

“You don’t talk about her much.”

“Told you, she’s adopted,” they reach the kitchens, Jacob gesturing for Pratt to head in first. “She and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. But Joseph...thought she was capable of great things. Saw potential in her.”

The appliances are industrial stainless steel. They look remarkably new and clean, compared to everything else in the Center. Clearly, the John has sunk a lot of money into at least this part of the renovation.

There aren’t any chairs, but Jacob gestures for Pratt to sit on the preparation table while he works. He pulls fresh vegetables from the refrigerator block, peppers, onions, green beans.

“Joe tries to see the best in everyone. He really does. And he’s...deeply disappointed when those same people don’t live up to his expectations.” Jacob washes everything in the sink thoroughly, before spreading out the vegetables across the cutting board next to Pratt.

He’s meticulous in slicking, the kitchen knife going cleanly through each time. He tosses everything into a bowl as he finishes cutting. Already, it looks good.

“So,” Pratt frowns, “I know he doesn’t...know about us, but I guess he’s made up his mind on me already?”

Jacob goes back into the fridge, pulling out a half-pound of red meat. Looks like beef. Grabbing a second cutting board, he goes to work, while the pan heats on the stove against the wall. 

“No, not at all. If anything, he’s _too_ intrigued by you. Too interested. I’d rather...he leave you alone. But that’s my fault he ever looked.”

“You didn’t tell him though, did you?” Pratt winces when he accidentally bangs the back of his heel against the cabinet below him, the sound of his shoe against steel rattling through the kitchen.

“Not about us. But I mentioned your name in another context. Nothing to worry about,” he has to turn away to set the meat into the hot skillet. Watching as the meat starts to brown, he half turns his posture so he can still look at Pratt while they talk. “Like I said, it’ll be settled soon.” He grabs a bit of meat back off the pan, tossing it to his wolf. She snaps it down, licking her chops and wandering away. Must know she won’t get anything else.

Pratt doesn’t like this, but at least whatever it is Jacob is going through with his brothers, it’s close to being resolved.

They eat in the kitchen, Pratt still perched on the countertop and Jacob standing next to him, using the prep area as a table. The meat is nice, juicy, just on the side of undercooked. And the vegetables taste crisp and clean, not too soft.

When they’re finished, Jacob washes everything by hand, dries the dishes and puts them back in their place. As if they were never there at all.


	23. Chapter 23

Jacob calls him on his birthday, while Pratt is at the Spread Eagle with Joey and Sharky and Mary May. Sharky has been on his best behavior as of late. Hasn’t had a complaint against him in six week’s time. Really turning over a new leaf, all things considered. Pratt and Joey won’t say so to his face, but they’re proud of him. Plus, that’s one less person in the county they have to worry about every second of every day.

Nick and Kim are supposed to show up too for the festivities. But they’re running late. Sharky makes some sort of lewd, eldritch hand gesture to suggest what the hold-up is all about. Joey laughs, saying she’s pretty sure that Nick doesn’t have a tentacle dick.

“Hey, you don’t know for sure what he’s packing,” Pratt smiles around the mouth of his beer.

His phone buzzes in his front pocket. Caleb - New. And Pratt slips off his barstool, heading for the rear door and out the back. No one pays him much mind as he leaves, even if this is his “party.”

“Hello?” He’s not really far enough from the bar quite yet to speak Jacob’s name. Still walking in the direction towards the open field set behind the Spread Eagle. But as long as he’s careful with what he says, there shouldn’t be any trouble.

“Happy Birthday, Peaches.” Jacob drawls.

Finally having reached the near edge of the field, Pratt jumps the fence, wandering easily now towards its dark center. “Not going to ask me where I am?” He teases. Pratt has only had three beers, but he feels good, light. It’s been a mundane couple of weeks. And Pratt is starting to appreciate the happiness that comes with nothing at all happening.

“Already know,” Jacob says.

An unexpected light in the distance catches Pratt’s eye. A flashlight blinking off and on in the dark. “That you?” Pratt asks, his chest getting tight, lungs fluttering in anticipation.

“Why don’t you come and see?”

At first, Pratt worries about remaining nonchalant. But when he realizes no one is out here to watch him, he breaks into a run, phone clutched in one hand, darting towards the light, tucked in behind the tracker shed in the distance.

When he reaches his destination, he drops his phone in the dirt, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Jacob and hold him close. This feels like something big, something wonderful. That Jacob is even here.

“Hey,” Jacob says, running his fingers through Pratt’s hair, “I can’t stay long, okay?” Pulling his hand away, Jacob starts sliding to his knees. “Think you can keep quiet, Peaches, or am I gonna have to gag you?” He tucks his calloused fingers into the waistband of Pratt’s jeans, starting to tug them away from his hips.

“I gotta,” Pratt groans, as Jacob opens his belt and fly, slipping that giant fucking hand into Pratt’s boxers and gripping him tight, “gotta go back to the bar, after. Can’t make a mess.”

From his position on his knees, Jacob smiles up at him, “well then, good luck with that.” Jacob swallows him down, sucking hard and wet and perfect, too-dry lips stretched around Pratt’s dick, bobbing his head obscenely as Pratt claws his fingers into Jacob’s hair.

Pratt spits curses as Jacob sucks, until he can’t keep up the words anymore, shifting into choked, sobbing moans as he comes, his back against the shed and knees weak with fading want.

“Careful, Careful,” Jacob warns as he wipes his mouth. He grabs Pratt by the throat, shoving him back against the side of the shed, just as he starts to pull away. Reaching around with his free hand, he shoves Pratt’s jeans down a few more inches, running his dry fingers against his ass. “You gonna let me inside?” Jacob asks.

Pratt nods furiously, hissing, “ _yes_.”

Jacob turns Pratt around, pushing his face against the vinyl siding. Pulling a packet from his jeans, Jacob slicks his fingers, shoving two of them inside of Pratt at once. Pratt is barely stretched when he starts asking for “more,” Jacob using a second packet to slick his cock. He holds Pratt in place against the siding, slowly, torturously slipping in.

“You’ve gotten so strong,” Jacob praises, pressing teeth-addled kisses to the back of Pratt’s neck. He shoves one hand up Pratt’s shirt, groping at his chest as he starts pounding in. It’s too soon for Pratt to get hard again, but the sensation, the suggestion of being owned, possessed, is pleasant in itself. The oppressive heat of Jacob’s body rutting against his, filling him up.

“Come inside of me,” Pratt pleads, “do it, fuck.” He tries to find purchase against the wall, but comes up empty handed, his nails scratching fruitlessly against the shed.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Go back to your your party, your friends, filled up with my come. Dripping down the inside of your thighs.”

“Oh, fucking, fuck, Jacob,” and for a second, Pratt thinks he’s gonna get hard again, refractory period be fucking damned.

“They’ll be able to smell it on you, Peaches. Won’t be able to keep it secret.”

Pratt whines as Jacob shoves against him, feeds him filthy praise. That he’s a good bitch, so good at taking his cock. Keeping Jacob’s come in his ass. Cries so pretty when he takes it.

Jacob comes inside him like he said he would. Then helps him buckle his belt back up once they’re finished. And god, Jacob is probably right. If he goes back to the bar, everyone will know. He can only imagine how well-fucked he must look. Fuck.

“Go,” Jacob urges, “it okay.” He smooths Pratt’s hair down. “It’s not that obvious.”

Pratt is pretty sure it is. His face feels hot and he’s wet between his legs. He thinks it’s sweat, not Jacob’s come. But they say their goodbyes anyway and Pratt heads back in the direction of the bar. Slipping in through the back, he sees that Nick and Kim have arrived. They greet him with open arms and a firm slap on the back. 

No one says a word about the state that Pratt is in.

—

In September, a late-season tourist fishes a blood-soaked dress out of Cedar Lake. Panicked, they call in an emergency. Whitehorse has to send someone out. He figures Hudson and Pratt will do. Can’t possibly anger a garment too badly.

Pratt drives and they talk about easily spooked city folks, who don’t know when to leave things well enough alone. It’s just a dress. Not a body. And they probably mistook clay for blood. It’s probably nothing.

When they arrive, Joey takes the lead, striding over to where the fisherman is crouched down near the tattered dress, laid out on the shore.

Pratt doesn’t think much of it, until he sees.

It’s Faith Seed’s dress. Unmistakable. She’d been wearing it both times Pratt had seen her, long and flowy, reaching down to her ankles. And she’s a tall woman, far above the average. Pratt wouldn’t, couldn’t mistake it.

The front of the dress is covered in a dark stain, running from just below the bustline down to almost her knees. Soaked through the layers of linen, the fabric torn in places. She fought her attacker.

Where is the body?

Pratt barely registers that Joey is speaking with the tourist, getting what little information that he has. They’ll take the dress away, have it checked out. But Pratt can tell that Joey is just trying to appease him, put on a good face for the county, to make sure the tourist money comes back in next season.

While Joey is occupied, Pratt hurries back into the direction of the cruiser. He grabs his phone out of the driver’s side and calls Caleb - New, waiting for the voicemail to click over. The number repeats back to him and he hisses, “Call me back,” before hanging back and shuffling in the direction of the dress.

He gets the dress into an oversized evidence bag while Joey fills out the tag. With the tourist satisfied, they head back to the car, Pratt letting Joey know, as calmly as he can, “I think it is blood...we should get it tested.”

Joey shrugs her shoulders, “I think so too. We’ll see what the Sheriff says. It’s been a slow week, and it’s a cheap test.”

Back at the station, Whitehorse says that’s fine if they actually want to follow up. But in the absence of a body, or any other evidence that there’s been a crime, there’s nothing they’re about to do on account of one ruined summer dress.

Pratt bites his tongue before he says anything. He needs to hear from Jacob first. Maybe this is just some weird Eden’s Gate ritual and Faith is fine. Maybe Pratt is worrying over nothing. Because if something happened to Faith, Jacob would tell him, right? He wouldn’t put it past Joseph to try and….treat her with prayer or say that something horrific was ‘god’s will.’ But Jacob is reasonable. He would have told Pratt.

—

Jacob doesn’t call him back.

—

The dress comes back a week later. It’s blood. A-. Nothing else to really know without more expensive tests. Whitehorse files the report away. They haven’t found anything else. No missing persons, no body in the lake. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

—

Pratt calls again. Jacob doesn’t answer.

—

Ten days after they discover the dress, Jacob finally calls. Pratt is in the cruiser with Gilmore. He can’t pick up. But she hears his phone, buzzing where he slipped it in the door well. Gilmore says it’s okay, he can pick up if he needs to. They’re minding the speed trap just outta Fall’s End. Slow as hell. No reason Pratt can’t take his call.

But Pratt lets it ring. Lies, and says it’s just his friend. He can call back later. It’s not important.

Pratt calls Jacob back, later that same night.

The number has been disconnected.

—

He can’t, he can’t go to the Veterans Center, he can’t be seen. But he has this horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong, wrong, wrong. And Pratt doesn’t know how to make it right. He doesn’t know where Faith lives. If it’s with John or Joseph. Or someplace else. He doesn’t think it’s here, at the Center. But it could be somewhere else entirely.

And the phone, Jacob’s phone being cut off. Something has happened to _Jacob_ too. Pratt is helpless. Adrift. 

He parks a quarter mile from the Center, cutting his lights and the engine. His car is so nondescript that he doesn’t worry about anyone messing with it at the side of the road. And if something happens, well...he’ll handle that problem later.

Pratt walks the rest of the way on foot, keeping off the road as to not get hit, just far enough down the embankment that the passing cars aren’t likely to get a look at him. As he creeps towards the Center, the floodlights bathing the property in yellow glare, his heart sinks. How is he supposed to get inside? The whole thing is surrounded by a wrought iron fence, too tall to properly jump. Pratt doesn’t know if there’s a way through other than the gate into to the courtyard. And it’s not like the Peggies are just going to open up and let him inside. They don’t know he’s Jacob’s….anything. Fuck.

Instead of heading for the front gate, he circles around the side, still keeping enough of a distance from the fence that the cameras won’t pick him up. Fuck, the cameras. Even at this distance, he can see their ominous little red lights in the darkness, picking up any motion from the outside.

Pratt kind of thinks that maybe, if he acts like he belongs, whoever is watching the video feeds won’t think much of him coming into the Center, but he still hasn’t found another way through the fence.

Pratt’s phone buzzes in his front pocket and he scrambles to tug it out. Unknown Number, MT.

“Hello?” He holds his breath, please let it be Jacob.

“Where are you?”

Pratt doesn’t think there is an explanation for his behavior that isn’t fucking bonkers, so he just rolls with the truth. “Outside the Veterans Center, trying to find a way in. You’re okay?” He knows his voice is shaking, but there’s nothing he can do to calm it. 

“I’m fine, Peaches. But I’m not at the Center. Come back to your car.”

The car. Okay, okay, that means that Jacob is okay. Hearing his voice means that he’s okay. Jacob knows where his car is and he’s okay. Pratt has got to ask him about Faith, but that can wait until they’re together.

“Okay, I’m heading back,” Pratt turns back in the direction of where he left his civic. He has every intention of keeping Jacob on the line, but Jacob has already hung up. That’s okay, though, they’ll see each other soon.

Pratt doesn’t see Jacob’s truck, or any other car he might have used. Or _Jacob_ , for that matter. Reflexively, he reaches for his sidearm, drawing out his gun and widening his stance as he approaches the car. Jacob said he’d be here.

He aims his pistol into the car, tension leaving his body when he sees it’s Jacob sitting cramped up in the back seat, no room for his long legs. Pratt could have sworn he locked his car.

Holstering his pistol, Pratt climbs into the back seat with Jacob, though it’ll be a tight fit. Pratt barely fits back here, so he can only imagine how uncomfortable it is for Jacob.

“Hey,” Pratt shuts the door, “Hey, hey,” he’s so on edge about everything that his hands are shaking when he leans over to press his lips to Jacob’s.

Jacob returns the kiss, and a little sliver of the anxiety Pratt has wrestled with for weeks comes loose, lodging somewhere in his throat and coming out as an undignified little gasp.

“Easy now, easy,” Jacob strokes his fingers down Pratt’s cheek. “You’re okay, Peaches. I’m okay.”

Pratt nods, pulling back, “Your phone…”

“Lost that one. Only now managed to get another.” He grunts something that sounds a little bit like, “sorry.” But Pratt isn’t sure.

Pratt nods, pulling away from Jacob in an effort to sit comfortably, “Jacob, there’s something I need to ask you, okay,” he draws a shaky breath, “I think….is Faith…” he thinks very carefully about his question. “Where is Faith, Jacob?”

Beside him, Jacob doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His lips draw into a thin line and stay there.

“Where is Faith, Jacob?” Pratt’s voice is pinched, on the precipice of panic. Because Jacob hasn’t answered. He tries to swallow down the fear. Consume the truth he already suspects, so that Jacob can fill his mouth and head with pretty lies instead.

“She’s not here.”

“Jacob…”

But Jacob doesn’t say anything else.

Pratt knows. He’s known all along. Since they pulled the dress out of the river, and he remembered Faith’s face at Joseph’s sermon. Something was already terribly wrong. And yet, Pratt did nothing.

“Get out of my car, Jacob.” He tries to stay calm, but he’s too close to shrieking already, “Tell me, or get out of my goddamn car!”

“Jessop Conservatory,” he says, plainly. Opening the car door, Jacob climbs out and disappears into the night. 

Pratt shakes in the backseat of the car, trying to keep himself from sobbing out, even though there’s no one left to hear him.


	24. Chapter 24

Pratt can’t get out to Jessop Conservatory until the following evening, after his shift lets off. The sun is just starting to fade along the horizon line as he approaches the property. If Pratt had been upfront with Whitehorse, the Sheriff probably would have let him fly the chopper out, save him some time. But then Pratt would be going to visit the conservatory in some sort of official capacity. And that’s not his intention. He just wants to make sure that Faith is okay.

So, instead of flying, he makes the long drive out into the Henbane. The weather is still hot, despite encroaching autumn, but he’s not much inclined to use the aircon. Instead, he rolls the windows down and drives, elbow stuck out the open window. Faith is okay, he repeats to himself, he’s just gotta see it with his own two eyes.

He gets part way up the long drive that leads to the main house, before three of those fucking white trucks come into view, parked in front of the porch. Fucking hell. He just wanted to talk to Faith, not the entire church. Maybe if he hangs back, out of sight, he can wait for everyone to leave. If he can just get a good look at Faith, his anxiety might be assuaged. 

Parking his car behind one of the greenhouses, Pratt tucks in out of sight. The greenhouse itself is packed full of white flowers, choking up every available space inside. The wind shifts slightly, a puff of sweetly scented air washing over Pratt as he gets out of his civic and creeps around the side of the greenhouse, still keeping himself concealed, but giving him a better view of the porch.

Right now, he’s just at the edge of earshot. If someone were to have a conversation on their way from the house to the trucks, he’d be able to tell the tone of it, but not the words. Cautiously, he shuffles in closer, keeping low and close to the greenhouse, before darting across the narrow gap between the one he’s parked behind and the next closest to the main house.

He’s fairly sure from his position, no one is going to be able to pick him out. So, Pratt keeps still and listens, trying to push out of his mind that he’s acting suspicious as hell, again. Last night at the Veterans Center wasn’t his finest moment. But it would never have come to this if Jacob weren’t acting so goddamn suspicious himself.

And fuck, Jacob is still acting all strange, what with just wandering out into the open woods. Not so much as a goodbye. Pratt has his new number in his recent calls, but hasn’t bothered to save the contact. ‘Caleb -NewNew-‘ maybe. He snickers, his friendship with Caleb feels like a weird, distant dream now. Good fucking riddance. Caleb was always getting things he never even asked for, leaving Pratt to follow after in hopes of scraps.

He waits a solid twenty minutes, his legs starting to cramp up from staying crouched too long. Just as he’s starting to stretch, he finally hears movement from inside the house. Joseph Seed emerges first, Jacob following just behind. A half dozen peggies tumble out after, their white sweaters, black crosses emblazoned across the front, look too heavy for today’s heat. 

Finally, Rachel Jessop slips through the doorway, her arms and legs rail thin, dirty blonde hair flat and oily, weighed down with grime. She’s barefoot, red-brown clay staining her feet. Arms crossed over her chest in a protective gesture, she tells Joseph in a weak voice, “I understand.”

There’s still no sign of Faith. 

Joseph touches her hair, dragging his fingers down her cheek. Rachel tilts her head into his open palm.

Pratt’s stomach clenches hard. Rachel doesn’t look scared. If anything, her face takes on a soft, serene expression. But something is not right about the scene. The way Joseph touches her is too intimate. She’s so young compared to him...but Pratt quickly realizes that the difference in their ages is no different than him and Jacob…

“Yes, Father,” she responds, when he says she must be brave in the coming days. John will send a car to fetch her, and she’ll be properly anointed as Joseph’s _Faith_.

No, no, no, no, no.

Pratt still doesn’t have all the pieces, but he knows now that Jacob tricked him. The Faith he’s looking for isn’t here at all, the handsome woman with dark hair and long limbs. He and Joey may have only pulled her dress out of the river, but Pratt knows now that his suspicions were correct.

Faith, the Faith he saw at the riverside, white flower tucked behind dark hair, is dead.

And Jacob is covering for whoever killed her.

As badly as his head is reeling, he tries to pay attention to any additional details that might help him figure out what the fuck is going on. Joseph tells Rachel that by Sunday, all should be prepared. She should wait, purify herself in the Bliss until then, and do not resist John when he comes for her.

Sunday, that gives Pratt three days.

Pratt waits in hiding for Jacob, Joseph, and the rest of the Peggies to pile themselves back into the trucks. Tucked into his hiding place, he’s certain he’s well-enough conceded, even when the trucks pass perilously close.

Once the engine sounds fade, the convoy cutting back onto the main road and heading west, Pratt peeks his head out far enough to check out the porch one last time before he goes.

Rachel is still there, holding herself tight, chin pointed down towards her chest and hair falling like a dirty curtain, hiding her face.

He wants to go to her, to tell her it’s alright. He’ll take her back to the department and the Sheriff will find a way to keep her safe. But Pratt’s not sure that’s what she wants, or even needs. And he suspects that if he intervenes now, he can never prove what happened to Faith Seed.

Sunday, he’ll come back on Sunday morning. His graveyard shift ends at six, and he’s not back on shift until eight pm. On Sunday, he’ll be here before John, and he’ll intervene when he knows more about what the fuck is going on.

—

Pratt doesn’t tell Whitehorse about Faith. As far as the Sheriff is concerned, the whole incident with the dress is closed. Some tourist got spooked, Hudson and Pratt calmed his nerves, and yes, the stain was blood. But plenty of people get drunk and injuried in the Whitetails. Bodies might even get gobbled up by scavengers. But even then someone has to be reported missing, for the department to even take s look.

So, Pratt has to find a way to confirm that Faith is gone.

He doesn’t even bother covering his tracks, setting his cup of coffee next to his desk and opening up the license database. Typing in “Faith Seed,” he hovers over the drop down menu for birth year. Fuck if he knows, shit. He’d place her on either side of 40, but that’s not terribly helpful. He just runs the search on her name, seeing if anything pops.

There’s nothing in Montana. Okay, a bust. He tries Georgia instead, and gets four hits. Two of them he eliminates outright by their ages, one was born in 1956, and unless Eden’s Gate has found the fountain of youth, Faith can’t possibly be that old. The second is a 19 year old. Also not possible. But the other two were born in 1976 and 1983 and both of those seem reasonable. Clicking through to ‘76, her eyes are blue but she’s 5’3”, so, not her either.

Taking a deep breath, Pratt reaches for his coffee, takes a long, slow sip. It’s well on its way to room temperature. Laced with too much sugar but no cream. Makes it kinda look like he’s taking it straight.

The last Faith Seed isn’t her either. Brown eyes, blonde hair, but more importantly, 5’6”. Even in heels, she’d be too short, and Pratt distinctly remembers Faith in flats at Joseph’s chapel. She’s at least as tall as Pratt, maybe a full six feet, instead of just under.

Coming to a dead end, Pratt tries his luck with google instead, because fuck if that isn’t more thorough than any database he has access to as a deputy. He tries searching “Faith Seed Rome GA,” because he’s always gotten more results in Georgia than in Hope. A bunch of old news articles pop up, but looking through the previews, all the instances of “Faith” and “Seed” appear to be about the murky beliefs of Eden’s Gate, no one in Rome quite knowing what Joseph Seed believes. 

He opens a half dozen tabs with different articles, resigned to reading through them each to search for references to Faith. Some of the articles have pictures, but they’re all of Joseph, standing before his flock in public spaces he was subsequently kicked out of. John is mentioned several times, but there’s no Faith, no Jacob either. Like the other two Seeds don’t exist.

Fuck. 

Jacob’s GA license, it’s past its expiration date by now. Pratt searches for it by name, having forgotten the number over the last couple of years. There’s no Jacob Seed in Montana. Pratt tries Georgia; Jacob could have renewed his old one, if he’s still technically a resident in Rome.

Jacob’s license doesn’t come up at all.

What? 

Even if it’s expired, it should turn up in the database. Pratt double checks the year, 1971. That’s right. He knows it is. But for the sake of argument, he takes off the year completely and searches again. He gets two Jacob Seeds in Georgia, but neither is the Jacob is looking for.

Okay, okay. The search might just be finicky. That’s been known to happen, throwing out false results or not listing every entry that applies. Pratt can pull Jacob’s actual license number from the files here in the office, then at least check to see if he renewed in Georgia.

Pratt enters the number in, double checking every character to make sure he’s right. Hitting enter, he waits for Jacob’s picture to appear on screen.

It never loads.

As if Jacob Seed never existed at all.

—

Jacob calls him on Friday. He leaves a message.

Jacob has never left a message before.

“I need to see you, tomorrow. Call me back.”

Pratt doesn’t find the time to call until he’s off shift at six am. His hands shake around the wheel the whole ride home, parking kind of crooked and stumbling out of the driver’s side. Slamming the front door shut, he sinks down to the floor, his deputy uniform still sticking to his skin.

The phone rings and rings; Jacob picks up on the fourth. In twenty-four hours, Pratt has every intention of going straight to Jessop Conservatory, and finding out exactly what is going on.

“Are you home?” Not so much as a ‘hello’ from Jacob, or a gruff, fond, ‘Peaches.’

Pratt grunts in the affirmative.

“Come to the pond, now. I’ll meet you there.”

Groaning, Pratt tells him, “No, Jacob, not this time.” He’s exhausted, yeah, but that’s not really the reason. Or maybe it is. But his exhaustion is more than everything he’s been through the last couple of days. It’s with Jacob...these impossible demands and half-formed excuses. The hiding and the lies and Pratt always being a distant, albeit fond, priority as far as Jacob is concerned.

“Please, Staci,” Jacob’s voice sounds strange. Like he’s not himself. Absent of anger or frustration or teasing softness. All the things that make Jacob sound like Jacob. He sounds like he’s someone else.

“...No,” Pratt is cautious, listening for any sign of distress. Something is wrong. Something has been wrong for a long time. And he’s maybe now only starting to understand. Jacob is trying to warn him, but about what? Are his brothers listening? Is Jacob the one to be feared?

Pratt feels teeth, sinking in at his neck. He reaches up to wrap one hand around his throat, pushing down against stubble-covered skin. There’s nothing there. Of course there’s not. Just the fear that he has to swallow down. 

Jacob hangs up.

Pratt gets into his car.

Putting the key into the ignition, he turns his civic on, lets the engine idle, headlights bouncing of the metal siding of his mobile home. God, he bought the place for...he needs to be honest with himself. He came here for Jacob, some weird, childish fantasy of a handsome man who was going to change his whole goddamn world. And he did, Jacob really did. But Pratt isn’t a child anymore.

He sticks the car into reverse, looking over his shoulder as he backs out of his spot and maneuvers towards the road. The car is still slightly warm from his drive home from the station. On the road, there’s just the first trickle of cars heading into town for the morning bustle. That lazy hour between morning chores that start at five and a decent breakfast around seven.

Pratt’s not sure where he’s driving, his path aimless, winding. It’s 6:47 when he ends up at the gas station, topping up his tank even though it’s still two-thirds full. He resists the urge to click the pump a couple of times after the automatic shut off. Doesn’t know where he learned to do that, or who told him to quit it. Full is full, topping off the tank only leads to spillage.

A white truck pulls up the next pump over. Pratt tries not to even look in that direction. Probably just a bunch of random Peggies. But he’s off the clock and not particularly interested in picking up a bunch of goddamn fucking cultists who can’t be bothered to apply for a new license by mail. How hard can it fucking be.

But the looming shadow across the otherwise empty station cuts across his path. Tall and broad, the scent of cigarettes and skin familiar. Pratt balls his hands into fists before looking up, looking away, “What do you want, Jacob?”

And here, in the place that they first met, Pratt is certain that they’ve reached their end.

Jacob runs his dirt-stained fingers through his hair. It looks unwashed, sticky to the touch. Jacob looks like he hasn’t bathed in days, though under the smell of the cigarettes he’s been burning through, he smells fine. Better than fine, if Pratt is honest.

They could run into the woods now. Pratt might let Jacob fuck between his thighs one last time, for the sake of nostalgia.

“We’re on camera,” Pratt reminds Jacob, as if he could forget. Jacob always knows someone is watching. For someone who claims not to believe in god, Jacob is awful concerned about being found a sinner.

“Might you know where we’ll be alone?”

Pratt snickers, saliva catching in his throat. He swallows hard, trying to pass it down without choking on it. He doesn’t want Jacob to see him sweat. Doesn’t want to show any sign of weakness.

“I told you, Jacob…”

“Stop looking into Faith,” Jacob says, “stop it, Staci. You don’t...don’t concern yourself with it anymore.”

Pratt laughs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. He didn’t even have time to change out of his deputy uniform. Right now, it feels too tight around his chest and arms, like it’s trying to suffocate him. “You forget who I am.”

“No, I don’t,” Jacob shakes his head, “Take your mother, Staci, and get out. Get out of Hope County. Don’t come back.”

Pratt narrows his eyes at Jacob, hissing through his teeth, “What the fuck?”

Stepping quickly forward, Jacob grabs him by the back of the neck. Pratt starts to step away, before Jacob pulls him closer, leaning over far enough that their lips meet, however vile, however brief.

Pratt shoves at Jacob’s chest, pushing him away. He stumbles back towards his civic, glaring Jacob down. That bastard better not follow him. “I’m going home, Jacob.”

“ _Leave_ ,” he stresses, “don’t come back...I...don’t.”

Pratt shakes his head, getting back in his car and peeling away before Jacob can get another word in.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief, not really explicit m/f scene in this chapter.

Pratt’s mother calls him before his shift. She says that they can talk about it more later, but she’s accepted an offer on the house. It was so unexpected, and so much money. Hard to say no. And she’s been thinking about it, for awhile. Her little Staci all grown up, doesn’t need her much anymore. For the time being, she’ll stay with her sister, just outside Austin, get to spend time with her niece’s children living just up the road.

The call leaves Pratt with sticky weight in his chest, something almost-rancid sweet and hard. He tells her that he wants her to be happy. And that he’s sorry that he’s been so busy with work. He doesn’t ask who bought the house. He’s pretty sure he knows.

At the station, he goes through the motions, patrol with Davies, then back to the station when the shift change happens, another cup of coffee, back out onto the road by himself. He’s too nervous to stay cooped up in the department offices, and Whitehorse isn’t there to tell him to stay put.

He ends up parking the cruiser at the side of the road, pulling out his phone and flipping through his contacts. Pausing over Caleb’s name, the real Caleb, he hesitates. It’s not like he knows for certain that his old friend still has the same number. Might have changed phones, to one with a more upscale area code. 

Even so, Pratt types out a text, nothing too specific or revealing. Nothing that just screams, “hey, I just broke up with my boyfriend of two years, and turns out I have no one to talk to about what happened.”

_hey how have you been man?_

He leaves the text there, going back to his contacts to scroll again. This time, he lands on Joey’s number. If he calls her, she’ll know for certain that something is up. But she said that she’d always have his back, right? Or what was it? That she’d always take his side?

Even now, he doesn’t want to turn Jacob over, still knowing, or at least suspecting, what has become of Faith. Pratt doesn’t want to say anything until at least tomorrow, when he can see what the fuck is going on at Jessop Conservatory between Rachel and John Seed. He can’t have Joey running in, trying to play hero and save Pratt from himself. But, god, he wants to talk to someone.

_heeeeey stace? how you been? still in hope?_

He should reply to Caleb, but he can’t make his fingers work.

—

Pratt has just enough time at home to strip out of his uniform, pulling on a plain tee and a jean jacket, something that won’t draw too much attention. He gets into his car and starts the long drive out to Jessop, vibrating around the steering column, half convinced he won’t be able to make it in time.

Speeding along the roads, he makes it to the eastern edge of the Henbane in record time. And, hey, if he took advantage of the knowledge that Joey doesn’t ever make it onto her route before seven-fifteen, so be it.

Rather than risk bringing his civic up the driveway, he parks further down the street, leaving his car in a little roadside lot intended for boaters making use of the pier further down the embankment.

He considers approaching Jessop from the south, cutting through and avoiding the driveway altogether. But say that John is already there, Pratt is without his car and will never be able to properly tail him. In the end, one route is as good as the others, and he makes his way cautiously up the main drive, banking on the idea he’ll be able to spot any Peggies before they see him.

The driveway is empty, stretching up towards the sprawling house. In the greenhouses, white flowers are in full bloom. They must have opened in the last couple of days, because the last time Pratt was here, they didn’t smell quite as sweet, enticing.

Coming up over the shallow ridge, he catches sight of John’s bulky SUV parked next to the house. Two Peggies stand watch, their eyes fixed on the porch. Pratt has to get out of sight before they notice him and dropping low, he scurries back into position where he managed to hide the other day.

The minutes drag on and the flowers wind around his senses, catching in the fibers of his jacket, warm and plush and so sweet honey-sticky. Normally so much sugar would make Pratt gag. But as he crouches next to the greenhouse, waiting for John and Rachel to arrive, he sticks out his tongue to taste the air.

At the corners of his vision, white instead of red. Is he asleep? No. But something like it. A place to rest his head.

He snaps back to attention as the porch door slams shut, John’s hand wrapped around Rachel’s arm, hurrying her to the SUV. She’s not fighting him, but her face is turned away, she wears no shoes. Her legs are scratched raw, from knee to ankle. And there, above her knee, pale skin gives way to white lace.

What the fuck.

Pratt turns his head to vomit into the grass, his head still spinning from the cloying cloud around his head. He’s seen that exact dress, a dozen times, maybe more, in the red-tinged shadows of his dreams. It’s the same dress he wears in those dreams. Delicate white coils against his darker skin, creeping down his arms, clinging to his hips and thighs. 

How? 

He’s never been much for symbolism, never tried to figure out what the dreams might mean. As he watched Jacob bleeding, dying, he grew concerned that maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something. But the dress has never bothered him, some stupid trick inside his mind, same as being naked or dressed as a cowboy or a quarterback. Maybe, maybe has a tiny bit to do with his sexuality. Some part of him that just can’t get over how much he _likes_ Jacob making him submit, turning Pratt into his _girl_ , though Pratt is sure Jacob doesn’t see it that way. Jacob doesn’t go for women.

But seeing the dress now, wrapped around Rachel’s delicate frame makes him ill. Makes him remember spaces in between the dreams. Details he forgets when he wakes up, shoving aside the wolves that chase him in his sleep. This must _mean_ something. It _has_ to. Maybe he’s supposed to be here. Maybe he’s supposed to save her.

Pratt tries to push himself to his feet, scramble after Rachel as she’s shoved into John’s car. But he can’t find his balance, barely getting his legs straightened out before he’s tumbling back to the ground, the back of his head smashing against the greenhouse exterior.

Covering his mouth, he realizes now that keeping quiet is useless. Someone would have heard the crash when he fell. Still, he doesn’t know what else to do, biting into the flesh of his palm to keep from whining in pain.

He hears footsteps on the drive, approaching his location. The back of his head is wet with blood, seeping through his hair, matting it down and mixing in with the dirt and grass and gravel.

A slender shadow blots out the early morning sun, John Seed himself crouching down close to Pratt. His light eyes narrowed, creamy pale skin slightly flushed from the cold. With his shirt sleeves rolled up, John’s tattoos are on full display. Pratt’s vision is too blurry to make out any of the figures inked into his arms. But where John’s shirt falls open at the collar, his chest is blotchy-red. Where before, SLOTH was carved into his sternum, it’s now been scratched out.

“I know you,” John says, “I know who you are, Staci Pratt.” John reaches out, his long, delicate fingers brushing through Pratt’s curls. “My brother thinks that he’s clever, that he’s hidden you away.”

Pratt squeezes his eyes shut. He’s fucked up so badly. They’ve fucked up. The one thing Jacob wanted, was for his brothers not to know. And yet, all along, John has had them figured out.

“That could have been you,” he nods back towards the SUV, towards Rachel bundled safely inside. “Jacob wanted it to be you...but you know that already, don’t you?” John clicks his tongue inside his mouth. “In the end, the Father got who he wanted. I suppose it’s his divine right.”

John rises up, dusting at the front of his jeans, thought there’s no dust to mar them. He leaves Pratt where he is, walking back towards the car, with his hands shoved in his pockets. Pratt can only watch as the SUV pulls away and he is left behind.

—

Pratt doesn’t tell Whitehorse what he saw. He doesn’t tell Joey. But he sends a text to Caleb.

_yeah still in hope. You should come visit_

_oh totally let me look at tickets_

Caleb doesn’t text back after that.

—

In October, he takes a day off work to help his mother pack away the final remnants of their lives together in Hope County. He pulls the hard drive from his old computer, choosing to trash the rest of it. His things from childhood, he boxes up and sticks into the trunk of his civic. 

She’s hired movers for the furniture, to load the heavy boxes that she’s neatly wrapped over the preceding weeks. Pratt helps her pack away her picture albums, framed photographs, trinkets of his brief forays into athletics. By the time everything is secured in white boxes, sealed with tape, his mother realizes that she doesn’t have the means to cook a final meal at home. Her face is so terribly sad that Pratt bundles her into his arms, telling her that he’ll miss her. But he’ll save up his vacation days to come visit her, just as soon as Whitehorse hires another deputy.

Pratt drives into Fall’s End to grab take-out from the Spread Eagle. The food is too heavy and greasy for his mother’s tastes, but they sit together in the kitchen, and savor every bite, surrounded by the souvenirs of the moments receding in the distance.

They leave the keys on the kitchen counter and lock the door behind them, after the moving company finished loading up the truck. Pratt is just thankful that he doesn’t have to watch John walk through his mother’s house.

—

The next time Pratt sees Rachel Jessop, she calls herself Faith Seed.

It’s December, and she wears a crown of hothouse flowers woven through her wheaten hair. Though her legs are bare, she does not shiver in the cold. When Pratt approaches her, on the banks of the Henbane in the dwindling afternoon light, she smiles so sweetly. 

It’s the beginning of Pratt’s shift, following his usual route in the cruiser winding through the county. The Peggies that stand at her back say nothing, their eyes wide and glassy. The white of their attire is stained with dirt and grime. Several hold spades in their hands, drawn up close to their chests, ready to lash out at the deputy.

But Rachel, Faith. Extends her hand, telling them that the good deputy means them no harm. The tattoo on the inside of her forearm stands stark against the pallor of her skin, almost blue from the cold.

“Rachel…” his voice is pinched as he tries to reach her. He knows he is a coward for having waited so long. For not forcing himself to his feet at the conservatory. Not decking John in his perfect face, clawing his eyes out when he had the chance. But he couldn’t. He was weak, like Jacob teased.

“Faith,” she corrects, “I’m Faith, and I’m happy.”

There’s nothing Pratt can do alone.

—

He tells Whitehorse. Not everything. Not even close. But he picks and chooses, telling the Sheriff that he saw Rachel Jessop at the river, flanked by cultists. He tells him that she called herself _Faith Seed_. And that the name should belong to another woman, in a different dress, who hasn’t been seen in months.

No one has reported a missing Faith Seed, Whitehorse tells him. They have no grounds for a search. For all they know, she left the county of her own volition, changed her name and disappeared into the warm embrace of civilization. Can’t blame her for wanting to leave the cult.

—

Jacob’s birthday passes.

—

Pratt considers driving out to Missoula, when he has two days off in a row. First time in ages that he’s had some time to himself, since before his mother left, he thinks. Without booking days off to spend with Jacob, he’s been picking up shifts when the others ask. Whitehorse won’t let him double book back to back, gotta be at least six hours in between shifts. But other than that, the department is too short-staffed for Whitehorse to refuse Pratt’s grueling schedule.

But, eventually, Whitehorse tells him he’s gotta take some days, even if the department had the money to pay his overtime. Funds aren’t the problem anymore. He’s got the money to hire someone, just nobody wants to take the job.

Joey is booked the next two days on, trying to save up some time off to take a vacation before the tourist season. So Whitehorse tells Pratt to get out of his hair. Will give him a third day off if he wants to fly down to see his mom. But he doesn’t, at least not yet. So instead he grunts, telling the Sheriff he won’t be going very far.

The problem with Missoula is that he might run into someone he’s met at one of Joey’s parties. And he wants anonymous. Well and truly without history or repercussions. He wants someone to suck his dick and then fuck well off, and he doesn’t want to wait for the tourist season to try and get it in Hope.

So, Missoula is really no choice at all, Billings and Helena are too far away. And, god, he goes as far as thinking about...he doesn’t even know, trying to find someone on Craigslist instead of Grindr, even if he has to pay for it. But that won’t really work either because after all, he works in _law enforcement_ and that’s a goddamn disaster waiting to happen.

Which leaves women. Not so bad, really, if all he’s looking for is a little attention. He can go to a bar in Missoula, easy, pick someone up and take her back to his room. Much easier than pursuing men for sure. Okay, okay, fair enough. He stares up at the ceiling and decides that he’s decided. Definitely. He’s going to drive out and rent a room, bring a woman back and have her suck his dick, eat her pussy, have a good fucking time without Jacob. Isn’t going to think about Jacob at all.

Except he gets into his civic, a bag with a change of clothes in the passenger seat and his phone plugged into the aux, and decides to take the northern route out of the valley, even though he knows he should be heading south. Knows he shouldn’t wind the roads that will lead him up past the Veterans Center, but by the time he realizes what he’s doing, he tells himself it’s too late. Just….seeing the exterior of the building will be enough. Scratch some self-flagellating itch, find some satisfaction in how lonely he’s really been.

He parks a ways down the road. Can’t even really see the Center properly, just the floodlights that keep the property illuminated. The place is never dark. Jacob told him before that they train at night, sometimes. They need to be prepared.

Pratt opens the driver’s door, leaning over as he starts gagging, saliva coming up and spitting. Been about four hours since he ate and everything’s further now his digestive track. It’s just nerves and bile and awful. 

He should’ve get going, before the bars all close.

In Missoula, he doesn’t bother getting a room first. Searches on his phone from the city center where the best spot might be. Settles on a bar where the reviews say the drinks are cheap and the music too loud. Sounds as good a shot as any. 

The place is half a step above a dive, but Pratt wasn’t expecting more than that. He orders vodka and water, not willing to wait for beer to kick in. It’s late enough that the place is fairly packed, the dance floor in one corner crowded with young women, mostly in sneakers or snow-boots and too-short skirts. It’s a look for sure.

He’s not in the mood for posturing, or for dancing, so he waits to see who might break off for a drink. Pratt has never been that picky when it comes to women, nice smile maybe, friendly. But there’s not much consistency in his history. And, fuck, it feels like history. Hasn’t had a woman in his bed since he was twenty-one….

Two women, definitely friends, tug each other over towards the bar, laughing into each other’s shoulders as they lean close together. Pratt likes the look of either of them, cheerful, open, but doesn’t know for sure that either will give him the time of day.

He tells the bartender to handle drinks for both of them, even though they take up the empty space a few seats down. The bartender raises one bleached eyebrow at him, but heads over to ask the women what they want. 

She tells him the tab is fourteen dollars and Pratt doesn’t ask for more information than that, shoving over a twenty and telling her that’s fine. He takes his own drink and wanders off in the direction of the blacked out window, already feeling hopelessly adrift.

The two women don’t look much older than twenty-one, which is...good he guesses. The right age or something. He’ll be twenty-five this year…

After whispering in each other’s ears, both the women head over, one with her half-full glass and one without. Must have already finished at the bar,

“Normally,” the shorter of the two starts without hesitation, “when you buy a girl a drink, you mean something by it.”

Pratt gives them the best smile he can manage, “Normally.”

“So what do you mean?” she finishes.

Pratt realizes he doesn’t really know how to do this, at least, not anymore. Not in his setting. But he figures a smile and some honesty doesn’t hurt, “Dunno,” he laughs, “I’m not very good at this.”

“Why not?” The shorter one, clearly the more talkative of the two chirps.

“Got out of a relationship….about five months ago,” god has it been that long? “Maybe forgot how all this works.”

That loosens up the mood, and though both women start to talk, they’re definitely not going in a direction that suggests they’re interested in sleeping with him. Fuck, it’s not like he would want to take them both somewhere. Wouldn’t know what to fucking do for sure. But they ask about his ex and he bites his tongue, not knowing what to say.

“That bad, huh?”

Pratt shrugs, “You could say that.”

He doesn’t know quite how it happens, but he pays for another round and the talkative one tells her friend that she can head on home if she wants. Pratt takes that as his signal that somehow, miraculously this has worked. He thinks that maybe being a deputy helped him some, that and he towers over her, and some women are just drawn to that.

On their way out he offers her his jacket, she says that’s okay, laughing and admitting she’s buzzed enough she can’t feel the cold. Going back to her apartment isn’t happening, not with her roommate and Pratt has to admit that he still hasn’t got a room.

She scoffs and Pratt says it’ll just take him a second. But she just asks about his car.

The Civic is too small for Pratt’s long legs, but she curls up just fine, sucking him to completion within a couple of minutes. He tells her that he wants to eat her out. sticks two fingers into her while he does.


End file.
